Young Mr. Wickert looked at once self-conscious and a trifle miffed, for in his own set he was regarded as quite the mould of fashion. "Oh, well, if you want to pipe off the guys that _think_ they're the whole thing, walk up the Avenue and watch the doors of the clubs and the swell restaurants. At that, they haven't got anything on some fellows that don't spend a quarter of the money, but know what's what and don't let grafters like Mertoun pull their legs," said he. "Say, you seem to know what you want, all right, all right," he added enviously. "You ain't goin' to let this little old town bluff you; ay?" "No. Not for lack of a few clothes. Good-night," replied Banneker, leaving in young Wickert's mind the impression that he was "a queer gink," but also, on the whole, "a good guy." For the worldling was only small, not mean of spirit. Banneker might have added that one who had once known cities and the hearts of men from the viewpoint of that modern incarnation of Ulysses, the hobo, contemptuous and predatory, was little likely to be overawed by the most teeming and headlong of human ant-heaps. Having joined the ant-heap, Banneker was shrewdly concerned with the problem of conforming to the best type of termite discoverable. The gibes of the doorstep chatterers had not aroused any new ambition; they had merely given point to a purpose deferred because of other and more immediate pressure. Already he had received from Camilla Van Arsdale a letter rich in suggestion, hint, and subtly indicated advice, with this one passage of frank counsel: