“Vanderbilt,” said he. “There's the biggest man in the country. He's made twenty million dollars with his brain. Think of that! He's the Napoleon of this day.” There came a rap at the door, and Mr. McCarthy shouted, “Come in!” and a young man entered with a large blank-book in his hand. “Mr. Heron, this is Mr. Magillies, a graduate of the commercial college at Poughkeepsie, and a grand penman,” said the hand-made gentleman. “He takes down my letters for me, and writes 'em off and sees that they're worded proper. Would you like to hear me answer my correspondence?” I assured him of my interest, and thereupon the hand-made gentleman dictated many letters with a look and tone of great dignity. Now and then he addressed some delinquent and unscrupulous debtor with great emphasis, and more than once he described the virtues of Sal and Sal's sisters and the clover-scented soap loudly and with gestures suited to the word, so that he reminded me of the picture in my reading-book of a Roman senator addressing the populace. The young man left us late in the evening with his record of their work. Then said the hand-made gentleman: “I must have somebody for that position who is more than a mere writing-machine. I want some gentleman who thinks as I do and will stand up for me like a brother. I want you!” It took me by surprise, and I thanked him and expressed doubt of my fitness. “I know you, and you know me,” he said. “I like you, Mr. Heron, and believe in you; and if you feel the same, let's pull together. I have some big things to do, and you can help me; and I'll double the pay you're getting.” I was a rapid writer, and many had praised the neatness and legibility of my penmanship. Then, too, I was rather fond of the hand-made gentleman, and had a great faith in him. But how about my mother and sister and Jo, for both Heartsdale and Merrifield were a long way from Rushwater. “I'd like to go to the war,” I answered, “if my mother will consent.” “The ambition is meritorious,” said he. “There can be nothing nobler than the wish to serve your country, but I don't think it needs you. The war will be over in a few weeks. Then there are your mother and sister--don't they need you more than the country does?” “I'm afraid they do.” “Then you mustn't think of going. Your father gave his life in battle. I think your mother has given the country enough.” I walked up and down the room thinking. “It's hard work,” said Mr. McCarthy. “I sit here until midnight sometimes pounding at the letters. But you'll have a chance to travel and meet men who amount to something, and we'll have a good time together.” “It's only a matter of arranging my affairs,” I said to him. “There's my mother and sister.” “Go home and see if you can get them to move here.” He lighted a long cigar, and sat down with one foot on the desk. The hand-made gentleman had learned to smoke.