Yet still the clock dragged on, and still he waited for the magic hour.

Ten minutes to twelve--five--then twelve precisely--but by this time he was closeted inside Mr.Guthrie's private office.
Peter also found the hours dragging.

What could it all mean?
he kept asking himself as he handed back the books through his window, his eyes wandering up to the old-fashioned clock.

Robert Guthrie the banker--a REAL banker--had sent for the boy--Guthrie, who never made a too hurried move.

Could it be possible that good fortune was coming to Jack ?--that he and Ruth--that--Ah! old fellow, you nearly made a mistake with the amount of that check! No--there was no use in supposing.