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.

“Think up that ‘call-me-Bob’ business yourself?”

“I got it from a reliable source.”

“Damn lie,” remarked Poultney Masters equably.  “Did the work, though.  Banneker, why didn’t you let me know you were in the market?”

“In the stock-market?  What has that—­”

“You know what market I mean,” retorted the great man with unconcealed contempt.  “What you don’t know is your own game.  Always seek the highest bidder before you sell, my boy.”

“I’ll take that from no man—­” began Banneker hotly.

Immediately he was sensible of a phenomenon.  His angry eyes, lifted to Poultney Masters’s glistening little beads, were unable to endure the vicious amusement which he read therein.  For the first time in his life he was stared down.  He passed on, followed by a low and scornful hoot.

Meeting Willis Enderby while charge and counter-charge still rilled the air, Io put the direct query to him: 

“Cousin Billy, what is the truth about the Laird-Masters story?”

“Made up out of whole cloth,” responded Enderby.

“Who made it up?”

Comprehension and pity were in his intonation as he replied:  “Not Banneker, I understand.  It was passed on to him.”

“Then you don’t think him to blame?” she cried eagerly.