eleven o'clock
Wednesday morning
`` Well , '' he answered as he raised his lips from a joy draft at the cup of her pink palms , `` the immediate cause was a telegram that came Tuesday night . It said ' _ Gid sells out Mr. Tucker and wants your girl _ , ' and it was signed ' _ Bob _ . ' All these weeks a bunch of hard old goldbugs had been sitting in conclave , weighing my evidence and reports and making one inadequate syndicating offer after another . They were teetering here and balancing there , but at eleven o'clock Wednesday morning the cyclone that blew me down here across Old Harpeth originated in the directors ' rooms of the firm , and I guess the old genties are gasping yet . `` I had that telegram in my pocket , tickets for the three-o'clock Southern express folded beside 'em , and I put enough daylight into my proposition to dazzle the whole conclave into setting signatures to papers they 'd been moling over for weeks . I do n't know what did it , but they signed up and certified checks in one large hurry . `` Then I beat it and never drew breath until I made the Farmers ' and Traders ' Bank in Boliver this afternoon , covered those notes of Mr. Alloways , killed that mortgage and hit Providence Road for Sweetbriar .