It was a policeman that pointed it out

"No. I don't think so. Mr. Homans." A graying man with the gait of a marionnette and the precise expression of a rocking-horse, who had just entered, crossed over. "Have we sent out any checks to a Mr. Banneker recently, in California?" The new arrival, who was copy-reader and editorial selecter for the Sunday edition, repeated the name in just such a wooden voice as was to be expected. "No," he said positively. "But I've cashed the checks," returned Banneker, annoyed and bewildered. "And I've seen the clipping of the article in the Sunday Sphere of--" "Just a moment. You're not in The Sphere office. Did you think you were? Some one has directed you wrong. This is The Ledger." "Oh!" said Banneker. "It was a policeman that pointed it out. I suppose I saw wrong." He paused; then looked up ingenuously. "But, anyway, I'd rather be on The Ledger." Mr. Gordon smiled broadly, the thin blade poised over a plump, reddened knuckle. "Would you! Now, why?" "I've been reading it. I like the way it does things." The editor laughed outright. "If you didn't look so honest, I would think that somebody of experience had been tutoring you. How many other places have you tried?" "None." "You were going to The Sphere first? On the promise of a job?" "No. Because they printed what I wrote." "The Sphere's ways are not our ways," pronounced Mr. Gordon primly. "It's a fundamental difference in standards." "I can see that." "Oh, you can, can you?" chuckled the other. "But it's true that we have no opening here." (The Ledger never did have an "opening"; but it managed to wedge in a goodly number of neophytes, from year to year, ninety per cent of whom were automatically and courteously ejected after due trial. Mr. Gordon performed a surpassing rataplan upon his long-suffering thumb-joint and wondered if this queer and direct being might qualify among the redeemable ten per cent.) "I can wait." (They often said that.) "For a while," added the youth thoughtfully.