"Wait a minute, Sam, wait a minute," hailed Westlake, puffing laboriously across the closely cropped lawn.
Sam held up his horses abruptly, and they stood swinging their heads and champing at their bits, while Sam, with a trace of a frown, looked at his watch.
"What's your rush?" asked Westlake. "I've been hunting for you everywhere. I want to talk about some important features of that Marsh Pulp Company of yours."
"All right," said Sam. "I'm open for conversation. I'll see you right after lunch."
"No. I must see you now," insisted Westlake. "I've—I've got to decide on some things right this morning. I—I've got to know how to portion out my investments."
Sam looked at his watch and was genuinely distressed.
"I'm sorry," said he, "but I have an engagement over at Hollis Creek at exactly ten o'clock, and I've scant time to make it."
"Business?" demanded Westlake.
"No," confessed Sam slowly.
"Oh, social then. Well, social engagements in America always play second fiddle to business ones, and don't you forget it. I'll talk about this matter this morning or I won't talk about it at all."