done. The staff of the News were out of bed and at work ridiculously
early, and when John called up the office between eleven and twelve
o'clock--nature's breakfast-hour--Smith was again down East, observing
the movements of those who were about to strike or who had already
struck.

It hardly seemed worth while starting to lay the bed plates of his
fortune till he had consulted the expert. What would Rockefeller have
done? He would, John felt certain, have gone to the ball-game.

He imitated the great financier.

* * * * *

It was while he was smoking a cigar after dinner that night, musing on
the fortunes of the day's game and, in particular, on the almost
criminal imbecility of the umpire, that he was dreamily aware that he
was being "paged." A small boy in uniform was meandering through the
room, chanting his name.

"Gent wants five minutes wit' you," announced the boy, intercepted.
"Hasn't got no card. Business, he says."

This disposed of the idea that Rupert Smith had discovered his retreat.
John was puzzled. He could not think of another person in New York who
knew of his presence at the Astor. But it was the unknown that he was
in search of, and he decided to see the mysterious stranger.

"Send him along," he said.