He had not long to wait.

Indeed, that delightful old gentleman had but a short time before called to a second old gentleman, a more or less delightful fossil in black wig and spectacles, to take his place at the teller’s window, and the first delightful old gentleman was at the precise moment standing on the top step of the Exeter, overlooking the street, where he had caught sight of Jack wending his way toward him.

“Jack!  Jack!” Peter cried, waving his hand at the boy.

“Oh! that’s you, Uncle Peter, is it?  Shall I—?”

“No, Jack, stay where you are until I come to you.”

“And where are you going now?” burst out Jack, overjoyed at reaching his side.

“To luncheon, my dear boy!  We’ll go to Favre’s, and have a stuffed pepper and a plate of spaghetti an inch deep, after my own receipt.  Botti cooks it deliciously;—­and a bottle of red wine, my boy,—­wine,—­not logwood and vinegar.  No standing up at a trough, or sitting on a high stool, or wandering about with a sandwich between your fingers,—­ruining your table manners and your digestion.  And now tell me about dear Ruth, and what she says about coming down to dinner next week?”

It was wonderful how young he looked, and how happy he was, and how spry his step, as the two turned into William Street and so on to the cheap little French restaurant with its sanded floor, little tables for two and four, with their tiny pots of mustard and flagons of oil and red vinegar,—­this last, the “left-overs” of countless bottles of Bordeaux,—­to say nothing of the great piles of French bread weighing down a shelf beside the proprietor’s desk, racked up like cordwood, and all of the same color, length, and thickness.

Every foot of the way through the room toward his own table—­his for years, and which was placed in the far corner overlooking the doleful little garden with its half-starved vine and hanging baskets—­Peter had been obliged to speak to everybody he passed (some of the younger men rose to their feet to shake his hand)—­ until he reached the proprietor and gave his order.

Auguste, plump and oily, his napkin over his arm, drew out his chair (it was always tipped back in reserve until he arrived), laid another plate and accessories for his guest, and then bent his head in attention until Peter indicated the particular brand of Bordeaux—­the color of the wax sealing its top was the only label—­with which he proposed to entertain his friend.

All this time Jack had been on the point of bursting.  Once he had slipped his hand into his pocket for Breen’s letter, in the belief that the best way to get the most enjoyment out of the incident of his visit and the result,—­for it was still a joke to Jack,—­would be to lay the half sheet on Peter’s plate and watch the old fellow’s face as he read it.  Then he decided to lead gradually up to it, concealing the best part of the story—­the prospectus and how it was to be braced—­until the last.