“You don’t owe me anything,” stated the agent.  “I can’t take this!”

“What!  Pride?  Tut-tut.”

“Why not?” asked Banneker.

Finding no immediate and appropriate answer to this simple question, Mr. Vanney stared.

“The company pays me.  There’s no reason why you should pay me.  If anything, I ought to pay you for what you did at the wreck.  But I’m not proposing to.  Of course I’m putting in my report a statement about your help.”

Mr. Vanney’s cheek flushed.  Was this composed young hireling making sport of him?

“Tut-tut!” he said again, this time with obvious intent to chide in his manner.  “If I see fit to signify my appreciation—­remember, I am old enough to be your father.”

“Then you ought to have better judgment,” returned Banneker with such candor and good-humor that the visitor was fairly discomfited.

An embarrassing silence—­embarrassing, 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.”