“Don't let him scare you. He's as full o' power as my turbine; has a good deal of a whir to him. Likes resistance; so does every great force. Used to row a boat all day, an' every day. Fought the wind an' the tide. Stiffened his hands on the oar. Can't straighten 'em to this day. He's fought a thousand difficulties. He'll take you for another an' pitch into ye--like as not. Don't let him scare ye. If he jumps on ye, jump on him; he'll enjoy it, an' begin to respect ye. It's like puttin' a belt on the turbine--you'll take off a bit of his power an' ease him down.” We passed through two offices on our way to that of the Commodore. “Walk right in,” said a colored man, who sat near an open door, when Mr. McCarthy had claimed his right to an interview. We entered, and saw a large, handsome man sitting by a desk on the farther side of a big room. He had a massive head, and white hair and side-whiskers--the latter neatly trimmed--and sat with legs crossed in a big arm-chair. The elegance of his attire impressed me, especially the waistcoat of figured silk, the jewel in his shirt-front, and the spotless white choker. He looked up over his glasses. The skin began to wrinkle a bit around his dark eyes. “Well, what is it, sonny?” he demanded. “My name is James Henry McCarthy, of Rush-water, New York,” said my friend. “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. “I think one gentleman ought to be careful of the feelings of another,” said Mr. McCarthy. “He made me feel like a dog.” “He was out of sorts,” I remarked.