“I don't care what your name is; tell me your business,” said Commodore Vanderbilt—for he it was—and he spoke sternly.
“It's a railroad project, referred to by my friend, H. M. Pearl, Esq., in his talk with you.”
“My God!” said Mr. Vanderbilt, as he flung a paper on the desk before him. “I've got projects enough now. Will you please let me alone?”
“No, I will not,” said the hand-made gentleman, decisively. “I've travelled over two hundred miles to keep an appointment with you, and I insist that you show me proper respect.”
The Commodore changed his tone. “Young man,” said he, “I won't talk with you; I can't talk with you. Come to my house to-night. I'll see you at half-past seven.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the hand-made gentleman as we left the room.
Mr. McCarthy's feelings had been hurt and his confidence began to leave him. He had gone there with a good deal of honest pride in his heart—perhaps, even, a little too much—and I think he would rather I had not seen his embarrassment.
“I am surprised,” he said to me as we were going down the stairs together. “He cannot have read the letters of Lord Chesterfield.”
“Hasn't had time, probably,” I answered.
Our inn was near, and no word passed between us after that until we got to our room. My friend strode the floor in silence, and tears stood in his eyes for a moment. I felt for him, but could think of nothing to say.