Ross laughed. "Don’t you worry, uncle," he returned confidently. "I shall be at the office before father gets there."
But, despite his confidence, it was nearly ten the morning following before he stepped out of the elevator of a Broadway office building and presented himself hesitatingly before the clerk in his father’s outer office.
His hesitation was due to his appearance. His hat, new the afternoon before, was soiled and pierced by the calk of a horse’s shoe. His shirtfront was also soiled and then smeared over by a wet cloth in a vain effort to remove the dirt. His right coat-sleeve was wrinkled, and bore marks of a recent wetting. About his clothes lingered a subtle "horsy" odor, which caused the clerk to sniff involuntarily as he curiously looked over the heir to the house of Grant before disappearing into the inner office.
When he returned he bore the crisp message that Ross was to wait until his father had time to see him.
Ross waited. He retreated to a window through which the sunshine streamed, and there sat, industriously drying his wet sleeve. He pulled it, and smoothed it, and stretched it, only to see it shrivel and shrink while he waited. The clerk occasionally glanced with no abating of curiosity from the boy to the clock. Two hours passed. Others waiting in that outer office grew restless. They read. They took quick turns about the room. They went out into the corridor, and returned. At last, one by one, they were ushered into the inner office, while Ross still waited.
It was past twelve before his father sent for him, and the first glance the boy encountered was one of displeasure.
"Did you come in on the night-train?" was the elder Grant’s greeting.
"Yes, sir."
The father frowned, and looked up at a clock which ticked above their heads.
"I telegraphed you that I could see you at nine."