The afternoon train had been extraordinarily late, bringing him in long after dark, so the news of the arrival of this stranger of undoubted importance had not been widely disseminated as yet. In any event, it had not reached Toomey, who banged the door violently behind him as he strode into the office of the hotel. His brow was dark and it did not belie his mood. He was indignant, and with reason enough, for he had just learned that he had dined the barber futilely, since the ingrate had purchased elsewhere a sewing machine of a rival make.
As Toomey was about to take his accustomed seat, his glance chanced to light upon Prentiss’s distinguished back.
He stopped abruptly, staring in a surprise which passed swiftly from incredulity to joy. “The 'Live One!' Prentiss, at last!”
If he had followed his impulse, Toomey would have cast himself headlong upon the newcomer’s prosperous bosom, for a conventional handshake seemed inadequate to express the rapture that sent him to Prentiss’s side in a rush.
“Mr. Prentiss, as I live! Why didn’t you let me know?” It did not for a moment occur to Toomey that Prentiss was in Prouty for any other purpose than to see him.
Roused from a slight reverie, Prentiss turned and responded vaguely:
“Why, how are you Mr.—er—”
“Toomey,” supplied that person, taken somewhat aback.
“Ah, to be sure!” with instant cordiality. “And your wife?”
“She will be delighted to learn you are here. I wish you had come direct to us.”