Accessibility was one of Mr. Horace Vanney’s fads.  He aspired to be a publicist, while sharing fallible humanity’s ignorance of just what the vague and imposing term signifies; and, as a publicist, he conceived it in character to be readily available to the public.  Almost anybody could get to see Mr. Vanney in his tasteful and dignified lower Broadway offices, upon almost any reasonable or plausible errand.  Especially was he hospitable to the newspaper world, the agents of publicity; and, such is the ingratitude of the fallen soul of man, every newspaper office in the city fully comprehended his attitude, made use of him as convenient, and professionally regarded him as a bit of a joke, albeit a useful and amiable joke.  Of this he had no inkling.  Enough for him that he was frequently, even habitually quoted, upon a wide range of windy topics, often with his picture appended.

With far less difficulty than he had found in winning the notice of Mr. Gordon, Banneker attained the sanctum of the capitalist.

“Well, well!” was the important man’s greeting as he shook hands.  “Our young friend from the desert!  How do we find New York?”

From Banneker’s reply, there grew out a pleasantly purposeless conversation, which afforded the newcomer opportunity to decide that he did not like this Mr. Vanney, sleek, smiling, gentle, and courteous, as well as he had the brusque old tyrant of the wreck.  That green-whiskered autocrat had been at least natural, direct, and unselfish in his grim emergency work.  This manifestation seemed wary, cautious, on its guard to defend itself against some probable tax upon its good nature.  All this unconscious, instinctive reckoning of the other man’s characteristics gave to the young fellow an effect of poise, of judicious balance and quiet confidence.  It was one of Banneker’s elements of strength, which subsequently won for him his unique place, that he was always too much interested in estimating the man to whom he was talking, to consider even what the other might think of him.  It was at once a form of egoism, and the total negation of egotism.  It made him the least self-conscious of human beings.  And old Horace Vanney, pompous, vain, the most self-conscious of his genus, felt, though he could not analyze, the charm of it.

A chance word indicated that Banneker was already “placed.”  At once, though almost insensibly, the attitude of Mr. Vanney eased; obviously there was no fear of his being “boned” for a job.  At the same time he experienced a mild misgiving lest he might be forfeiting the services of one who could be really useful to him.  Banneker’s energy and decisiveness at the wreck had made a definite impression upon him.  But there was the matter of the rejected hundred-dollar tip.  Unpliant, evidently, this young fellow.  Probably it was just as well that he should be broken in to life and new standards elsewhere than in the Vanney interests.  Later, if he developed, watchfulness might show it to be worth while to....