"Now your book--thank you--And Jack"--this over the hat of
the depositor, his face a marvel of delight--"come to my rooms at
four--wait for me--I'll be there."
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.
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