It might have been half an hour later, as he sat smoking in blissful meditation in the living room of the station, that the door was wrenched open and Willie Spence burst into the room. Every hair on the old inventor's head was upright with anxiety, and he puffed breathlessly:

"What's ash.o.r.e? I saw your signal an' knew straight off somethin'

terrible was up, for you've never called for help from the town before.

I've raised all the folks I could get a-holt of an' Bob Morton's gone to get more. They'll be here on the double quick!"

The boast was no idle one. Even as he spoke there was a tramping, a rush of feet, and a babel of confused, frightened voices, and into the room flocked the dwellers of the hamlet,--men, women, and children, all with wind-tossed hair and strained, terrified faces.

"What is it?"

"What's the matter?"

"Where's the wreck?"

As they stood there tragic in the dim light, there was a stir near the door and Sarah Libbie Lewis pushed her way through the crowd.

She had stopped only to toss a black shawl over her head and in contrast to its sable folds her cheeks and lips were ashen.

"They told me there was a wreck," she cried, rushing to Jack's side and seizing his arm wildly. "Oh, you won't go--you won't go and leave me now, Jack--not so soon--not after to-night!"

Already sobs were choking the words and her hands were clinging to his.

With the supreme defiance of a man prepared to defend his dearest possession against the universe, Jack Nickerson circled her in his embrace and faced the throng. No longer was he the shrinking, timorous supplicant. Victorious love had set her crown upon his brows, bestowing dignity upon his years and glory upon his manhood. His explanation came fearlessly to his lips.

"There ain't no wreck," he said quietly. "All the same I'm glad you saw my lantern an' came, 'cause I've got somethin' to tell you all. Me an' Sarah Libbie are goin' to get married."

For a moment there was an incredulous hush. Then Willie Spence came to the rescue.

"Well, I will say, Jack," he drawled, "you had a pretty good nerve to get us out on a night like this to tell us that! You might at least have waited 'til mornin'. Still, I reckon if I'd been nigh on to a quarter of a century gettin' my s.p.u.n.k together to ask a woman to marry me an' had finally done it, I'd a-wanted somebody to know it."

The words were not unkindly spoken and Jack joined in the general laugh. Nothing mattered to him now. Oblivious to the spectators, he was bending down over the woman he loved and murmuring:

"I love you, Sarah Libbie. I've always loved you."

The little old inventor watched the radiant pair a moment then motioned to the villagers to slip away. But Bartley Coffin could not be restrained from lagging behind and whispering confidentially in Jack's ear:

"If you want to be truly happy, mate, an' live clear of a life of pesterin', don't you never buy Sarah Libbie a satin dress! Minnie an'

I have made it up, thanks to Willie Spence, but 'twas a tussle. I'd come to the jumpin'-off place."

The statement was but too true. Willie had indeed intervened and averted a tragedy, but the feat had demanded ruthless measures, and he had trudged home from the Coffins with the bone of contention clutched rigidly beneath his arm.

That night Celestina heard m.u.f.fled sounds in the workshop.

"Oh, my land!" she murmured. "If Willie ain't hitched again! I did hope nothin' new would come to him 'til he got rested up from this other idee."

But Willie's inspiration was not of the inventive type. Instead the little old man was standing before the stove, kindling a fire, and into its crackling blaze he was bundling the last remnants of Minnie Coffin's far-famed black satin. The light played on his face which was set in grim earnestness.

"It seems a wicked shame," he observed in a whisper, as he viewed the funeral pyre, "but it's the only way. Long's that dress remained on earth there'd be no peace for Bart nor his wife either. It had to go."

The flames danced higher, flashing in and out of the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs of jet and charring the beads to dullness. In the morning only a heap of gray ashes marked the flight of Minnie Coffin's social ambitions.

"_Requiescat in pace_!" murmured Willie as with lips firm with Puritan stoicism he pa.s.sed by the stove. There he added gently: "Poor Minnie!

Poor foolish Minnie!"

CHAPTER XIX

WILLIE AS PILOT

The invention was finished! The last rivet was in place, the last screw secure, and before the fulfilment of his dream the little old man stood with glowing face. It was a gentle, happy face with misty blue eyes that carried at the moment a serene contentment.

"I couldn't 'a' done it but for you, Bob," he was saying. "The idea was all well enough, but 'twould 'a' been of no use without other brains to carry it out. So you must remember a big slice of the credit is yours."

Robert Morton shook his head.

"Oh, the thing is yours, Willie--every bit yours," protested he. "I only did some of the mechanical part, and that any fool could do."

"The mechanical part, as you call it, is full as important as the notion," Willie persisted. "I shall tell Zenas Henry it's our invention when I turn it over to him."

The p.r.o.noun thrilled Bob with pleasure. It meant the sweeping aside of the last film of distrust and the restoration of the old man's former confidence and friendship. For days Willie had slowly been reaching the conviction that if fraud had been practised Tiny's nephew had been only an innocent party to it--the tool of more designing hands. How was the lad to know he was being so artfully made use of? And anyway, perhaps there may have been no conspiracy at all. Might not Janoah have been mistaken about Snelling raiding the workshop? Why, a score of reasons might have brought him there! He might have left behind him something he needed; or there might have been something he wanted to do. It was absurd to accuse him of a secret and deliberately planned visit.

Willie was a simple, single-minded soul and now that Janoah and his malicious influence had been removed, he dropped comfortably back into a tranquillity from which, when viewed in perspective, his former suspicions seemed both unjust and ridiculous. Suppose Mr. Galbraith did happen to be a boat-builder? Was he not Bob's friend and Delight's uncle, a gentleman of honor who had money enough without stooping to secure more by treachery? And did it not follow that since Mr.

Snelling was in his employ he must be a person of reputable character?

A fig for Janoah Spence's accusations!

Willie blew a contemptuous whiff of smoke into the air. How had he ever dropped to being so base as to credit them for an instant? He was ashamed for having done so.

Therefore whole-heartedly he gave his hand to Robert Morton, and if the act were a mute pet.i.tion for forgiveness it was none the less sincere in its intent and was met with an equal spirit of good will.

"I suppose now that everything is complete, there is no reason why we can't present the thing to Zenas Henry right away, is there?"

questioned Bob, who with hands thrust deep in his trousers' pockets contemplated with satisfaction the product of their joint toil.

"Not the least in the world," Willie answered. "If we was to keep it here a week there ain't nothin' more we could do to it, an' since you've tried it out over at Galbraith's we know it works."

"Oh, it works all right!" laughed Bob.

The eyes of the little inventor softened and into them crept a glint of pensiveness.

"Yes," he repeated, "we can deliver it up to Zenas Henry 'most anytime now." He paused. "Queer, ain't it, how kinder attached you get to anything you've fussed over so long? It gets to be 'most a part of you. You'll think it funny, I guess, but do you know I'll be sorter sorry to see this thing goin'."

It was the regret of the parent compelled to part from his child and with an effort at comfort Robert Morton said cheerfully:

"Oh, you'll be having a new scheme before long."

"Mebbe I will," Willie answered, brightening. "I never can tell when the sun rises in the mornin' what idee will kitch me before night.

Still, I somehow feel there'll be no idee like this one. You know they say every artist creates one masterpiece," he smiled shyly. "This, I reckon, is my masterpiece."