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.
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