“Oh, about that,” said Jeff, suddenly becoming embarrassed again, “I didn’t call up for that. I—er—you see, I don’t think I can take that. I just happened to be the fellow small enough to get through the hole, that was all. And if I hadn’t been along one of the railroad men would have got him out and earned the money, so I think it really should be divided among Tim Crowley’s men.”
“Tut, tut, my boy. No such thing. You earned it. Anyhow, come down and see me just as soon as you can. Come down now, I want to talk with you. About Pennington, you know. I’m very much interested in the school. It’s my old school, and I had a talk with Dr. Livingston over the telephone this morning. So come down as soon as you can.”
“Gee, I’ll come down for that. You bet I will. I’ll get my lunch and be down in half an hour. Good-by.”
Jeff was out of breath with nervousness and excitement as he hung up the receiver.
“Jiminy, I guess I was long winded with him over the telephone, and he’s a bank president, too. But I had to tell him all about it. And he wants to talk to me about Pennington. Jingoes—wonder what’s in the wind. Maybe Dr. Livingston has decided to give me another chance. Whoops! I’ll get some lunch and go right down to the Third National.”
And grabbing hat and overcoat he hurried downstairs to greet his aunt, a tiny thin little woman whose face seemed always troubled to Jeff, but whose disposition was always sunshine in spite of the fact that she and her husband, Jeff’s Uncle Frank, had to struggle constantly to make ends meet. She had kept his lunch warm in the oven and when Jeff told her all the news that had developed and she saw quite readily that he was in a hurry, she made haste to put the food on the table for him. And Jeff fell to with a will, for this was lunch and breakfast combined for him.
CHAPTER XI
BACK TO PENNINGTON
Jeff had often seen Mr. Davidson on the streets of New City and on the few occasions when he had been in the Third National Bank for some reason or another, but except for the talk he had had with him over the telephone that afternoon he had never really had any personal contact with him. Somehow he had always gone on assuming that he was a crotchety sort of an individual, dyspeptic and irritable and perhaps close fisted and stingy. In truth, he subconsciously had that opinion of all bank officials, and the result was that he was very nervous and ill at ease when he entered the waiting room behind the glass paneled door marked President and gave his name to the girl who occupied the room, and who, he correctly concluded, was Mr. Davidson’s secretary.
She disappeared into the inner office to reappear after a moment.