"And you MUST go? Isn't it mean, Jack--and it's such a lovely day."

"Yes--but it can't be helped. What are you going to do with the sandwiches and chicken and things? And you had so much trouble making them. And you will be lonely, too."

"Why, I shall keep them till you come back, and we'll have a lovely feast at home," she said with a light laugh in her effort to hide her feelings. "Oh, no, I shan't be lonely. You won't be gone long, Jack, will you, dear?"

"I hope not." His mind must no longer rest on the outing. There was work to do for Ruth as well as himself. His play time had come to a sudden end; the bell had rung and recess was over. He looked at his watch; there was just time to catch the train.

She followed him to the door and kissed her hand as he swung down the path and through the gate, and watched him until he had disappeared behind the long wall of the factory; then she went in, put away the sandwiches and chicken, and the teapot and the cups and saucers, and emptied the ice.

Yes, the day was spoiled, she said to herself--part of it anyway; but the night would come, and with it Jack would burst in with news of all he had seen and done, and they would each have an end of the table; their last dinner in the old home, where everything on which her eyes rested revived some memory of their happiness. But then there would be other outings at Morfordsburg, and so what mattered one day when there were so many left? And with this thought her tears dried up and she began to sing again as she busied herself about the house--bursting into a refrain from one of the operas she loved, or crooning some of the old-time melodies which her black mammy had taught her when a child.

But now for Jack and what the day held for him of wonders and surprises.

Some pessimistic wiseacre has said that all the dire and dreadful things in life drop out of a clear sky; that it is the unexpected which is to be feared, and that the unknown bridges are the ones in which dangers lurk and where calamity is to be feared.

The optimistic Scribe bites his derisive thumb at such ominous prophecies. Once in a while some rain does fall, and now and then a roar of thunder, or sharp slash of sleet will split the air during our journey through life, but the blue is always above, and the clouds but drifting ships that pa.s.s and are gone. In and through them all the warm, cheery sun fights on for joyous light and happy endings, and almost always wins.

This time the unexpected took shape in the person of T. Ballantree, from Morfordsburg--a plain, direct, straight-to-the-point kind of a man, whom Jack found in the corridor of the Astor House with his eyes on the clock.

"You are very prompt, Mr. Breen," he said in clear-cut tones, "so am I.

What I wanted to see you about is just this: You own some ore property three miles east of the Maryland Mining Company's lay-out. Am I right?"

"Yes, you are right," answered Jack with a comprehensive glance which began at the speaker's black derby hat, traversed his suit of store clothes, and ended in a pair of boots which still showed some traces of yellow clay, as if their wearer had been prospecting the day before.

"Are there any enc.u.mbrances on the property--any mortgages or liens not yet recorded? I don't mean taxes; I find they have been paid," continued Ballantree.

Jack shifted his seat so he could get a better view of the speaker's face, and said in answer:

"Why do you ask?"

"Because," said the man with entire frankness, "we understand that the Maryland Mining Company have an option on it. If that is so, I'll stop where I am. We don't care to buck up against Breen & Co."

"No," answered Jack, now convinced of the man's sincerity; "no--it's free and clear except for a loan of ten thousand dollars held by a friend, which can be paid off at any time."

Ballantree ducked his head in token of his satisfaction over the statement and asked another question--this time with his eyes straight on Jack.

"Is it for sale--now--for money?"

It was Jack's turn to focus his gaze. This was the first time any one had asked that question in the memory of the oldest inhabitant.

"Well, that depends on what it is wanted for, Mr. Ballantree," laughed Jack. He had already begun to like the man. "And perhaps, too, on who wants it. Is it for speculation?"

Ballantree laughed in return. "No--not a square foot of it. I am the general manager of the Guthrie Steel Company with head-quarters here in New York. We have been looking for mineral up in that section of the State, and struck yours. I might as well tell you that I made the borings myself."

"Are you an expert?" asked Jack. The way people searched his t.i.tle, examined his tax receipts and rammed hypodermics into his property without permission was, to say the least, amusing.

"Been at it thirty years," replied Ballantree in a tone that settled all doubt on the subject.

"It is a low-grade ore, you know," explained Jack, feeling bound to express his own doubts of its value.

"No, it's a high-grade ore," returned Ballantree with some positiveness; "that is, it was when we got down into it. But I'm not here to talk about percentage--that may come in later. I came to save Mr. Guthrie's time. I was to bring you down to see him if you were the man and everything was clean, and if you'll go--and I wouldn't advise you to stay away--I'll meet you at his office at twelve o'clock sharp; there's his card. It isn't more than four blocks from here."

Jack took the card, looked on both sides of it, tucked it in his inside pocket, and said he would come, with pleasure. Ballantree nodded contentedly, pulled a cigar from his upper breast pocket, bit off one end, slid a match along his trousers until it burst into flame, held it to the unbitten end until it was a-light, blew out the blaze, adjusted his derby and with another nod to Jack--and the magic words--"Twelve sharp"--pa.s.sed out into Broadway.

Ten minutes later--perhaps five, for Jack arrived on the run--Jack bounded into Peter's bank, and slipping ahead of the line of depositors, thrust his overheated face into the opening. There he gasped out a bit of information that came near cracking the ostrich egg in two, so wide was the smile that overspread Peter's face.

"What--really! You don't say so! Telegraphed you? Who?"

"A Mr. Ballantree," panted Jack. "I have just left him at the Astor House."

"I never heard of him. Look out, my boy--don't sign anything until you--"

"Oh, he is only the general manager. It's a Mr. Guthrie--Robert A.

Guthrie--who wants it. He sent Mr. Ballantree."

"Robert Guthrie! The banker! That's our director; that's the man I told you of. I gave him your address. Go and see him by all means and tell him everything. Talk just as you would to me. One of the best men in the Street. Not a crooked hair on his head, Jack. Well--well--this does look like business."

"Pardon me, sir, one minute, if you please--" interpolated Peter to an insistent depositor whom Jack in his impatience had crowded out. "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.

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.

"And how much, Jack?"

"Guess."

"Will there be enough to pay Isaac's ten thousand?"

"More!" Jack was nearly bursting, but he still held in.