The summoned waiter listened attentively, his head
bent low to catch the whispered order, and then disappeared
noiselessly in the direction of the front door, Peter's fingers
meanwhile beating an impatient staccato on the arm of his chair.
Nothing resulting from this experiment he at last gave up all hope
and again sought MacFarlane who was trying to pound into the head
of a brother engineer some new theory of spontaneous explosions.
Hardly had he drawn up a chair to listen--he was a better listener
to-night, somehow, than a talker, when a hand was laid on his
shoulder, and looking up, he saw Jack bending over him.
With a little cry of joy Peter sprang to his feet, both palms
outstretched: "Oh!--you're here at last! Didn't I say nine
o'clock, my dear boy, or am I wrong? Well, so you are here it's
all right." Then with face aglow he turned to MacFarlane: "Henry,
here's a young fellow you ought to know; his name's John Breen,
and he's from your State."
The engineer stopped short in his talk and absorbed Jack from his
neatly brushed hair, worn long at the back of his neck, to his
well-shod feet, and held out his hand.
Pages:
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250