In time, he recalled, the principal had come—and had not expelled him nor phoned for his father, merely reprimanded him and sent him back to his classroom. Perhaps the same thing might happen today, he thought, perhaps some miraculous change of heart on the part of old Thurman—
But no miracles took place. Eleven-fifteen went by, and eleven-thirty, and there was no sign of Thurman. Clerks serenely went about their routine duties, ignoring the tense, sweating man in the outer office.
At ten-to-twelve Harker rose and confronted the secretary again. "Any word from Thurman?"
"Not yet, sir," was the bland reply.
Harker crooked his fingers impatiently. "Look here, why don't you phone his home? Maybe he's seriously ill."
"We never disturb the Senator at home, sir."
Harker glared at the man, exhaled exasperatedly, and growled, "I guess you won't give me his home phone number."
"Afraid not, sir."
"Is there anything you will do? Suppose you phone the office of Senator Fletcher for me, then."
Fletcher was the Senate Majority Leader, another veteran Nat-Lib who was likely to know where to reach Thurman if anyone was. A little to Harker's surprise, the secretary said, "You can use the phone back here. Just pick up and tell the switchboard who you want."