“Tom,” he said, “'you stay here until I return—will you?”
“You bet!” smiled Tom, looking at the thickness of the system's history.
“I have a meeting or two before luncheon, but I'll try not to let them interfere.”
“Any time before three, boss,” said his son, cheerfully.
His heir and successor, but, above all and everything, his son! There was no sacrifice he would not make for this boy to keep him from blighting his own career—and his father's hopes, he added, with the selfishness of real love.
Knowing that Tom was safely imprisoned and could not marry at least for a few hours, he was able to concentrate his mind on his railroad's affairs. He disposed of the more urgent matters. At ten-forty he sent for McWayne.
“I'm going to 777 Fifth Avenue.”
“Again?” inadvertently said the private secretary.
Mr. Merriwether looked at him.
McWayne went on to explain: “I've had a man watching it since we found Tom called there, just before going to Boston.”