Now it appeared the partner or business representative of Mr. Morgan in New York City had discovered a flaw in the proposition, and had anxiously and urgently wired for instructions.
Station Z was just two miles from Fernwood, the summer home of the Morgans. It lay directly on the ocean, and was a straight course. Tom thought of Grace Morgan as he braced up for a vigorous walk. That was quite natural, for they were good friends. He lamented that he was not in very dressy shape to meet the dainty little miss, whom he would probably find in the pink of perfection as to garb and appearance, as she generally was.
“Can’t help it, this is business,” decided Tom grimly. “Maybe I won’t meet her,” he added hopefully.
Tom undertook a big spurt of speed. As he came to Silver Creek, two school chums getting ready to start fishing yelled at him.
“Hey, Tom!” cried one mandatorily.
“Yes, we want you,” piped the other.
“Can’t stop,” panted Tom, waving his hand, and speeding on as if he were entered for a Marathon.
“I’ve lost no time, that’s sure,” he decided as he passed the boathouse at the end of the private pier belonging to Fernwood.
Tom came to the terrace in front of the Morgan mansion. A fluttering white dress attracted his attention from the front porch of the house, and Grace came into view.
“Why, Tom!” she said in a genuine friendly welcome. “Come up and sit down. You look tired out.”