He would just wait for Jack's story.
When he reached home he was still in the same overwrought, anxious state--hoping against hope.

When would the boy come?
he asked himself a hundred times as he fussed about his room, nipping off the dead leaves from his geraniums, drawing the red curtains back; opening and shutting the books, only to throw himself into his chair at last.

Should he smoke until four ?--should he read?
What a fool he was making of himself! It was astonishing that one of his age should be so excited over a mere business proposition--really not a proposition at all, when he came to think of it--just an ordinary question asked.

He must compose himself.
It was quite absurd for him to go on this way.

But would the boy NEVER come?
It was four o'clock now--or would be in ten minutes, and--and-- Yes! He sprang toward the door and caught the young fellow in his arms.
"Oh! such good news! Mr.Guthrie's bought the property!" roared Jack.
He had made one long spring from the sidewalk up three flights of steps to the old-fashioned door, but he still had breath to gasp the glad tidings.
"Bought!--Who ?--Not Guthrie!" "Yes--I am to sign the papers to-morrow.