Tom glanced over the lobby again. He would have to wait. He dropped into one of the big easy-chairs, but the porter laid a hard hand on his shoulder.
“Come now, you can’t sit here. You’ve got to get out.”
Tom rose, confused and humiliated. He was aware of scores of curious and amused faces looking at him. The porter was edging him toward the exit, when somebody touched his arm.
“Bless my soul, Tom Jackson! I saw you come in, but didn’t know you. What in the world have you been doing to yourself?”
Tom almost gasped with deep relief. It was Mr. Armstrong himself, who had been in conversation with a small, alert-looking man with a gray mustache.
“Where’s your father? I got your telegram, but couldn’t make out what you were driving at,” pursued the lawyer.
“Father’s badly hurt. The meeting—is it over yet?” Tom exclaimed, choking with excitement.
“The meeting? No, it hasn’t started yet. We’re waiting for one of the important men. This is Mr. Laforce, of the Erie Bank. He says he had a telegram from you, too.”
“Of course I wired him!” cried Tom. “You must call the meeting off. We’re not bankrupt. We’re all right now. We’ve got upward of fifty thousand feet of good black walnut, worth three hundred dollars a thousand—as good as cash—”
Mr. Laforce gave Tom a keen glance.