One morning--John was nearing his twentieth birthday then--he was sent on a small matter of business to the Atlantic National Bank. He had despatched it and was passing out when Dawson, the president, surprised him by calling to him from the door of the private office. As John obeyed the summons and entered the office, the president motioned to another man who was leaning against the desk. “This is young John Bagsbury,” he said, “Mr. Sponley.” John had no time to be puzzled, for Sponley straightened up and shook hands with him. Whatever you might think of Melville Sponley, he compelled you to think something; he could not be ignored. He was at this time barely thirty, but already he bore about him the prophecy that, in some sphere or other, he was destined to wield an unusual influence. He was of about middle height, though his enormous girth made him look shorter, his skin was swarthy, his thick neck bulged out above his collar, and his eyelids were puffy. But his glance was as swift and purposeful as a fencer’s thrust, and a great dome of a forehead towered above his black brows. Keenly, deliberately, he looked straight into John Bagsbury, and in the look John felt himself treated as a man. They exchanged only the commonplaces of greeting, and then, as there seemed to be nothing further to say, John took his leave. “Why did you ask me to call him in here?” demanded the president. “Curiosity,” said Sponley. “I wanted to see if he was going to be like his father.” “He’s better stuff,” said Dawson, emphatically; “a sight better stuff.” Next day, a little after noon, John met Sponley on the street. Sponley nodded cordially as they passed, then turned and spoke:-- “Oh, Bagsbury, were you thinking of getting something to eat? If you were, you’d better come along and have a little lunch with me.” John might have felt somewhat ill at ease had his new acquaintance given him any opportunity; but Sponley took on himself the whole responsibility for the conversation, and John forgot everything else listening to the talk, which was principally in praise of the banking business. “I suppose you are wondering why I don’t go into it myself, but I’m not cut out for it. I was born to be a speculator. That has a strange sound to your ears, no doubt, but I mean to get rich at it. “Now a banker has to be a sort of commercial father confessor to all his customers. That wouldn’t be in my line at all; but I envy the man who has the genius and the opportunity for it that I fancy you have.” An habitually reserved man, when once the barrier is broken down, will reveal anything. Before John was aware of it, he had yielded to the charm of being completely understood, and was telling Sponley the story of his life at the bank. Sponley said nothing, but eyed the ash of his cigar until he was sure that John had told it all. Then he spoke:--