It seemed to him that, of course, it could not be true. The young editor who had eyed him through shell-rimmed glasses had said, "There's going to be a lot of hard work ahead—to keep up to this——"
Randy, in his room, laughed at the thought of work. What did hardness matter? The thing that really mattered was that he had treasure to lay at the feet of Becky.
He sat down at the desk to write to her, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, a hand that shook with excitement.
"I am to meet a lot of big fellows to-morrow—I shall feel like an ugly duckling among the swans—oh, the swans, Becky, did we ever think that the Trumpeter in his old glass case——"
The telephone rang. Randy, answering it, found Madge at the other end. There was an exchange of eager question and eager answer.
Then Randy hung up the receiver, tore up his note to Becky, asked the office about trains, packed his bag, and went swift in a taxi to the station.
It was not until he was safe in his sleeper, and racketing through the night, that he remembered the meeting with the literary swans and the editor with the shell-rimmed glasses. A telegram would convey his regrets. He was sorry that he could not meet them, but he had on hand a more important matter.