g, that is, to the older man; the
younger seemed not to feel it--was happily interrupted by the advent of
the lily-clad messenger.

Hastily retrieving his yellow-back, which he subjected to some furtive
and occult manipulations, Mr. Vanney, after a few words, took his
departure.

Banneker invited the newcomer to take the chair thus vacated. As he did
so he brushed something to the floor and picked it up.

"Hello! What's this? Looks like a hundred-bucker. Yours?" He held out
the bill.

Banneker shook his head. "Your uncle left it."

"It isn't a habit of his," replied the other.

"Give it to him for me, will you?"

"Certainly. Any message?"

"No."

The newcomer grinned. "I see," he said. "He'll be bored when he gets
this back. He isn't a bad old bird, but he don't savvy some things. So
you turned him down, did you?"

"Yes."

"Did he offer you a job and a chance to make your way in the world in
one of his banks, beginning at ten-per?"

"No."

"He will to-morrow."

"I doubt it."

The other gave a thought to the bill. "Perhaps you're right. He likes
'em meek and obedient. He'd make a woolly lamb out of you. Most fellows
would jump at the chance."

"I won't."

"My name's Herbert Cressey." He handed the agent a card. "Philadelphia
is my home, but my New York address is on there, too. Ever get East?"

"I've been to Chicago."

"Chicago?" The other stared. "What's that got to do with--Oh, I see.
You'll be coming to New York one of these days, though."

"Maybe."

"Sure as a gun. A chap that can handle a situation like you handled the
wreck isn't going to stick in a little sand-heap like this."

"It suits me here."

"No! Does it? I'd think you'd die of it. Well, when you do get East look
me up, will you? I mean it; I'd like to see you."

"All right."

"And if there's anything I can do for you any time, drop me a line."

The sumptuous ripple and gleam of the young man's faultless coat,
registered upon Banneker's subconscious memory as it had fallen at his
feet, recalled itself to him.

"What store do you buy your clothes at?"

"Store?" Cressey did not smile. "I don't buy 'em at a store. I have 'em
made by a tailor. Mertoun, 505 Fifth Avenue."

"Would he make me a suit?"

"Why, yes. I'll give you a card to him and you go in there when you're
in New York and pick out what you want."

"Oh! He wouldn't make them and send them out here to me? Sears-Roebuck
do, if you send your measure. They're