Out again and around the block; anything to kill time until the precious hour should arrive.  Lord!—­how the minutes dragged.  The hands of the old clock of Trinity spire must be stuck together.  Any other day it would take him at least half an hour to walk up Wall Street, down Broadway to the Battery and back again—­now ten minutes was enough.  Would the minute hand never climb up the face to the hour hand and the two get together at twelve, and so end his impatience.  He wished now he had telegraphed to Ruth not to expect him until the late afternoon train.  He thought he would do it now.  Then he changed his mind.  No; it would be better to await the result of his interview.  Yet still the clock dragged on, and still he waited for the magic hour.  Ten minutes to twelve—­five—­ then twelve precisely—­but by this time he was closeted inside Mr. Guthrie’s private office.

Peter also found the hours dragging.  What could it all mean? he kept asking himself as he handed back the books through his window, his eyes wandering up to the old-fashioned clock.  Robert Guthrie the banker—­a real banker—­had sent for the boy—­Guthrie, who never made a too hurried move.  Could it be possible that good fortune was coming to Jack?—­that he and Ruth—­that—­Ah! old fellow, you nearly made a mistake with the amount of that check!  No—­there was no use in supposing.  He would just wait for Jack’s story.

When he reached home he was still in the same overwrought, anxious state—­hoping against hope.  When would the boy come? he asked himself a hundred times as he fussed about his room, nipping off the dead leaves from his geraniums, drawing the red curtains back; opening and shutting the books, only to throw himself into his chair at last.  Should he smoke until four?—­should he read?  What a fool he was making of himself!  It was astonishing that one of his age should be so excited over a mere business proposition—­really not a proposition at all, when he came to think of it—­just an ordinary question asked.  He must compose himself.  It was quite absurd for him to go on this way.  But would the boy never come?  It was four o’clock now—­or would be in ten minutes, and—­and—­

Yes!

He sprang toward the door and caught the young fellow in his arms.

“Oh! such good news!  Mr. Guthrie’s bought the property!” roared Jack.

He had made one long spring from the sidewalk up three flights of steps to the old-fashioned door, but he still had breath to gasp the glad tidings.

“Bought!—­Who?—­Not Guthrie!”

“Yes—­I am to sign the papers to-morrow.  Oh!—­Uncle Peter, I am half crazy with delight!”

“Hurrah,” shouted Peter.  “Hurrah, I say!  This is good news!  Well!  —­Well!” He was still bending over him, his eyes blinking in his joy, scurries of irradiating smiles chasing each other over his face.  Never had the old gentleman been in such a state.