She complied. "What a terrible power little things have," she sighed.

"That would make me despise Laird."

"A million other people will feel the same way to-morrow."

"To-morrow? Is it to be published so soon?"

"In the morning's issue."

"Ban; is it true? Did he say that?"

"I have it from a man I've known ever since I came to New York. He's reliable."

"But it's so unlike Bob Laird."

"Why is it unlike him?" he challenged with a tinge of impatience.

"Hasn't he been playing about lately with the Junior Masters?"

"Do you happen to know," she replied quietly, "that Junior and Bob Laird were classmates and clubmates at college, and that they probably always have called each other by their first names?"

"No. Have you ever heard them?" Angry regret beset him the instant the question had passed his lips. If she replied in the affirmative--

"No; I've never happened to hear them," she admitted; and he breathed more freely.

"Then my evidence is certainly more direct than yours," he pointed out.

"Ban; that charge once made public is going to be unanswerable, isn't it? Just because the thing itself is so cheap and petty?"

"Yes. You've got the true journalistic sense, Io."

"Then there's the more reason why you shouldn't print it unless you know it to be true."

"But it _is_ true." Almost he had persuaded himself that it was; that it must be.

"The Olneys are having the Junior Masters to dine this evening. I know because I was asked; but of course I wanted to be here, where you are.

Let me call Junior on the 'phone and ask him."

Banneker flushed. "You can't do that, Io."

"Why not?"

"Why, it isn't the sort of thing that one can very well do," he said lamely.

"Not ask Junior if he and Bob Laird are old chums and call each other by their first names?"

"How silly it would sound!" He tried to laugh the proposal away. "In any case, it wouldn't be conclusive. Besides, it's too late by this time."

"Too late?"

"Yes. The forms are closed."

"You couldn't change it?"

"Why, I suppose I could, in an extreme emergency. But, dearest, it's all right. Why be so difficult?"

"It isn't playing the game, Ban."

"Indeed, it is. It's playing the game as Laird has elected to play it.

Did he make inquiries before he attacked us on the Veridian strike?"

"That's true," she conceded.

"And my evidence for this is direct. You'll have to trust me and my professional judgment, Io."

She sighed, but accepted this, saying, "If he _is_ that kind of a snob it ought to be published. Suppose he sues for libel?"

"He'd be laughed out of court. Why, what is there libelous in saying that a man claims to have been called by his first name by another man?"

Banneker chuckled.

"Well, it ought to be libelous if it isn't true," asserted Io warmly.

"It isn't fair or decent that a newspaper can hold a man up as a boot-licker and toady, if he isn't one, and yet not be held responsible for it."

"Well, dearest, I didn't make the libel laws. They're hard enough as it is." His thought turned momentarily to Ely Ives, the journalistic sandbag, and he felt a momentary qualm. "I don't pretend to like everything about my job. One of these days I'll have a newspaper of my own, and you shall censor every word that goes in it."

"Help! Help!" she laughed. "I shouldn't have the time for anything else; not even for being in love with the proprietor. Ban," she added wistfully, "does it cost a very great deal to start a new paper?"

"Yes. Or to buy an old one."

"I have money of my own, you know," she ventured.

He fondled her hand. "That isn't even a temptation," he replied.

But it was. For a paper of his own was farther away from him than it had ever been. That morning he had received his statement from his broker.

To date his losses on Union Thread were close to ninety thousand dollars.

Who shall measure the spreading and seeding potentialities of a thistle-down or a catchy phrase? Within twenty-four hours after the appearance of Banneker's editorial, the apocryphal boast of Mayor Laird to his wife had become current political history. Current? Rampant, rather. Messenger boys greeted each other with "Dearie, Mr. Masters calls me Bob." Brokers on 'Change shouted across a slow day's bidding, "What's your cute little pet name? Mine's Bobbie." Huge buttons appeared with miraculous celerity in the hands of the street venders inscribed,

"Call me Bob but Vote for Marrineal"

Vainly did Judge Enderby come out with a statement to the press, declaring the whole matter a cheap and nasty fabrication, and challenging The Patriot to cite its authority. The damage already done was irreparable. Sighting Banneker at luncheon a few days later, Horace Vanney went so far as to cross the room to greet and congratulate him.

"A master-stroke," he said, pressing Banneker's hand with his soft palm.

"We're glad to have you with us. Won't you call me up and lunch with me soon?"

At The Retreat, after polo, that Saturday, the senior Masters met Banneker face to face in a hallway, and held him up.

"Politics is politics. Eh?" he grunted.

"It's a great game," returned the journalist.