As time went on, the structural elements of this extraordinary man's character became more and more evident. He was then at the very apogee of his useful career. His fame had found its way around the world. The makings of a material monument were within his easy reach—the thing which spells supreme success in life for so many men and women, and not a few physicians, was at his very door had he cared to look in that direction; yet his face was set steadily forward toward other things. If his income was ample, his energy was enormous, and he spent both freely for the best interests of his profession and his people whom he loved. One hears of the fabulous fees physicians sometimes get. Dr. Janeway never used his unique position to prey upon the pockets of patients, simply because they were people of large worldly wealth. To him a patient was a human being who was sick and who needed to get well by the shortest possible route science and sense could secure. Each patient also provided a problem, and it was here where his masterly mind with its prodigious store of pathological information, derived a singular satisfaction. Illustrating the Doctor's direction of mind in matters of money in comparison with his interest in the patient's condition, this story, which belongs to the period of his beginning prominence, is significant even if its verity cannot be vouched for.

To one of the smaller Hudson River valley towns the Doctor was called by a local practitioner to see in consultation a man noted for his wealth, who lay critically ill. All the afternoon and evening were consumed in this rather trying trip. When the next morning at breakfast his wife made some mention of his arduous journey of the previous day, his face lighted up with interest at the recollection. To a practical wife, what could be more natural than an interest which embraced with some satisfaction the thought of her husband's immediate reward—that reward which could be readily converted into the shoes and frocks constantly needed by the little brood about her? So led on with the thought in her mind, she inquired how far the Doctor had travelled—the town to which he had gone. He told her with readiness the name of the railway station where the practitioner had met him and driven him to the patient's house; then his face relighting with the memory of the case which had so engrossed him, came out in his characteristic way with: "Very sick man; pneumonia; unusual type—very unusual." "But that very long trip, a whole afternoon and evening, that should mean a pretty good fee," said his wife. The Doctor, his mind still occupied with the sick man's problem, replied: "It was in the upper lobe, right side, quite solid, very rare—very rare to see that in these cases."

Then very gently from his wife came: "Did you remember to put down his address?" "No, no," was the somewhat irritable response. His mind then going back to the patient again: "But I have my notes on the case—on his condition." "But his name?" she came out with, "so that you can send your bill; you put that down?" "His name?" repeated the Doctor slowly, a slight frown of annoyance coming over his face as his train of thought was by then definitely derailed. "His name? No. Didn't get that."