Flood Tide

  CHAPTER X

  A CONSPIRACY

  On Sunday morning, when a menacing east wind whipped the billows intofoam and a breath of storm brooded in the air, the Galbraiths' greattouring car rolled up to Willie's cottage, and from it stepped not onlyRobert Morton's old college chum, Roger Galbraith, but also his father,a finely built, middle-aged man whose decisive manner and quick speechcharacterized the leader and dictator.

  He was smooth-shaven after the English fashion and from beneath shaggyiron-gray brows a pair of dark eyes, piercing in their intensity,looked out. The face was lined as if the stress of living had drawnits muscles into habitual tensity, and except when a smile relieved thesetness of the mouth his countenance was stern to severity. His son,on the other hand, possessed none of his father's force of personality.Although his features were almost a replica of those of the older man,they lacked strength; it was as if the second impression taken from thetype had been less clear-cut and positive. The eyes were clear ratherthan penetrating, the mouth and chin handsome but mobile; even thewell-rounded physique lacked the rugged qualities that proclaimed itsdevelopment to have been the result of a Spartan combat with the worldand instead bore the more artificial sturdiness acquired from sportsand athletics.

  Nevertheless Roger Galbraith, if not the warrior his progenitor hadbeen, presented no unmanly appearance. Neither self-indulgence noreffeminacy branded him. In fact, there was in his manner a certainmagnetism and warmth of sympathy that the elder man could not boast,and it was because of this asset he had never wanted for friends andprobably never would want for them. Through the talisman of charm hewould exact from others the service which the more autocratic naturecommanded.

  Yet in spite of the opposition of their personalities, Robert Mortoncherished toward both father and son a sincere affection which differedonly in the quality of the response the two men called forth. Mr.Galbraith he admired and revered; Roger he loved.

  Had he but known it, each of the Galbraiths in their turn esteemedRobert Morton for widely contrasting reasons. The New York financierfound in him a youth after his own heart,--a fine student and hardworker, who had fought his way to an education because necessityconfronted him with the choice of going armed or unarmed into life'sfray. Although comfortably off, Mr. Morton senior was a man of limitedincome whose children had been forced to battle for what they hadwrested from fortune. Success had not come easily to any of them, andthe winning of it had left in its wake a self-reliance and independencesurprisingly mature. Ironically enough, this power to fend for himselfwhich Mr. Galbraith so heartily endorsed and respected in Bob was thevery characteristic of which he had deprived his own boy, the vastfortune the capitalist had rolled up eliminating all struggle fromRoger's career. Every barrier had been removed, every thwarting forcehad been brought into abeyance, and afterward, with an inconsistencytypical of human nature, the leveler of the road fretted at his son'slack of aggressiveness, his eyes, ordinarily so hawklike in theirvision, blinded to the fact that what his son was he had to a greatextent made him, and if the product caused secret disappointment he hadno one to thank for it but himself. Instead his reasoning took thebias that the younger man, having been given every opportunity, shouldlogically have increased the Galbraith force of character rather thanhave diminished it, and very impatient was he that such had not provedto be the case.

  Robert Morton was much more akin to the Galbraith stock, the financierargued. He had all the dog-like persistency, the fighter's love of thegame, the courage that will not admit defeat. Although he would nothave confessed it, Mr. Galbraith would have given half his fortune tohave interchanged the personalities of the two young men. Could Rogerhave been blessed with Bob's attributes, the dream of his life wouldhave been fulfilled. Money was a potent slave. In the great man'shands it had wrought a magician's marvels. But this miracle, alas, itwas powerless to accomplish. Roger was his son, his only son, whom headored with instinctive passion; for whom he coveted every good gift;and in whose future the hopes of his life were bound up. Long since hehad abandoned expecting the impossible; he must take the boy as he was,rejoicing that Heaven had sent him as good a one. Yet notwithstandingthis philosophy, Mr. Galbraith never saw the two young men togetherthat the envy he stifled did not awaken, and the question rise to hislips:

  "Why could I not have had such a son?"

  The interrogation clamored now as he came up the walk to the doorwaywhere Robert Morton was standing.

  "Well, my boy, I'm glad to see you," exclaimed he with heartiness."You are looking fit as a racer."

  "And feeling so, Mr. Galbraith," smiled Bob. "You are looking wellyourself."

  "Never was better in my life."

  As he stood still, sweeping his keen gaze over his surroundings, atelegraphic glance of greeting passed between the two classmates.

  "How are you, old man?" said Roger.

  "Bully, kipper. It's great to see you again," was the reply.

  That was all, but they did not need more to assure each other of theirfriendship.

  "You have a wonderful location here, Bob," observed Mr. Galbraith whohad been studying the view. "I never saw anything finer. What a sitefor a hotel!"

  Robert Morton could not but smile at the characteristic comment of theman of finance.

  "You would have trouble rooting Mr. Spence out of this spot, I'mafraid," said he.

  "Mr. Spence?"

  "He is my host. My aunt, Miss Morton, is his housekeeper."

  Robert Morton had learned never to waste words when talking with Mr.Galbraith.

  "I see. I should be glad to meet your aunt and Mr. Spence."

  "I know they would like to meet you too, sir. They are just inside.Won't you come in?"

  Leading the way, Bob threw open the door into the little sitting room.

  In anticipation of the visit Celestina had arrayed herself in a freshprint dress and ruffled apron and had compelled Willie to replace hisjumper with a suit of homespun and flatten his locks into water-soakedrigidity. By the exchange both persons had lost a certainpicturesqueness which Bob could not but deplore. Nevertheless the factdid not greatly matter, for it was not toward them that the capitalistturned his glance. Instead his swiftly moving eyes traveled with onesweep over the cobweb of strings that enmeshed the interior and withoutregard for etiquette he blurted out:

  "Heavens! What's all this?"

  The remark, so genuine in its amazement, might under other conditionshave provoked resentment but now it merely raised a laugh.

  "I don't wonder you ask, sir," replied Willie, stepping forwardgood-humoredly. "'Tain't a common sight, I'll admit. We get used toit here an' think nothin' about it; but I reckon it must strikeoutsiders as 'tarnal queer."

  "What are you trying to do?" queried the capitalist, still too muchinterested to heed conventionalities.

  Simply and with artless naivete Willie explained the significance ofthe strings while the New Yorker listened, and as the old man told hisstory it was apparent that Mr. Galbraith was not only amused but wasvastly interested.

  "I say, Mr. Spence, you should have been an inventor," he exclaimed,when the tale was finished.

  He saw a wistful light come into the aged face.

  "I mean," he corrected hastily, "you should have a workshop with allthe trappings to help you carry out your schemes."

  "Oh, Mr. Spence has a workshop," Robert Morton interrupted. "Thenicest kind of a one."

  "Would you like to see it?" inquired Willie.

  "I should, very much."

  "I'm afraid it's no place to take you, sir," objected Celestina,horrified at the suggestion. "It ain't been swept out since thedeluge. Willie won't have it cleaned. He says he'd never be able tofind anything again if it was."

  Mr. Galbraith laughed.

  "Workshops do not need cleaning, do they, Mr. Spence?" said he. "Iremember the chaos my father's tool-house always was in; it never wasin order and we all liked it the better because it wasn't."

/>   Celestina sighed and turned away.

  "Ain't it just the irony of fate," murmured she to Bob, "that afterslickin' up every room in the house so'st it would be presentable,Willie should tow them folks from New York out into the woodshed? Imight 'a' saved myself the trouble."

  Robert Morton slipped a comforting arm round her ample waist.

  "Never you mind, Aunt Tiny," he whispered. "The Galbraiths have roomsenough of their own to look at; but they haven't a workshop likeWillie's."

  He patted her arm sympathetically and then, giving her a reassuringlittle squeeze to console her, followed his guests.

  It had not crossed his mind until he went in pursuit of them that ifthey visited the shop they must perforce be brought face to face withWillie's latest invention still in its embryo state; and it was evidentthat in the pride of entertaining such distinguished strangers thelittle old man had also forgotten it, for as Bob entered he caughtsight of him fumbling awkwardly with a piece of sailcloth snatched upin a hurried attempt to conceal from view this last child of hisgenius. He had not been quick enough, however, to elude thecapitalist's sharp scrutiny, and before he could prevent discovery theeager eyes had lighted on the unfinished model on the bench.

  "What are you up to here?" demanded Richard Galbraith.

  There was no help for it. Willie never juggled with the truth, andeven if he had been accustomed to do so it would have taken a quickerwitted charlatan than he to evade such an alert questioner. Thereforein another moment he had launched forth on a full exposition of thelatest notion that had laid hold upon his fancy.

  Mr. Galbraith listened until the gentle drawling voice had ceased.

  "By Jove!" he ejaculated. "You've got an idea here. Did you know it?"

  The inventor smiled.

  "Bob an' I kinder thought we had," returned he modestly.

  "Bob is helping you?"

  "Oh, I'm only putting in an oar," the young man hastened to say. "Theplan was entirely Mr. Spence's. I am simply working out some of thedetails."

  "Bob knows a good deal more about boats than perhaps he'll own," Mr.Galbraith asserted to Willie. "I fancy you've found that out already.You are fortunate to have his aid."

  "Almighty fortunate," Willie agreed; then, glancing narrowly at hisvisitor, he added: "Then you think there's some likelihood that ascheme such as this might work. 'Tain't a plumb crazy notion?"

  "Not a bit of it. It isn't crazy at all. On the contrary, it shouldbe perfectly workable, and if it proved so, there would be a mine ofmoney in it."

  "You don't say!"

  It was plain that the comment contained less enthusiasm for theprospective fortune than for the indorsement of the idea.

  The New Yorker, however, said nothing more about the invention. Hebrowsed about the shop with unfeigned pleasure, poking in among thecans of paint, oil, and varnish, rattling the nails in the dingycigar-boxes, and examining the tools and myriad primitive devicesWillie had contrived to aid him in his work.

  "I was brought up in a shop like this," he at length exclaimed, "and Ihaven't been inside such a place since. It carries me back to myboyhood."

  A strangely softened mood possessed him, and when at last he steppedout on the grass he lingered a moment beneath the arch of grapevine andlooked back into the low, sun-flecked interior of the shop as if loathto leave it.

  "I am glad to have seen you, Mr. Spence," he said, "and Miss Morton,too. Bob couldn't be in a pleasanter spot than this. I hope sometimeyou will let me come over again and visit you while we are inBelleport."

  "Sartain, sartain, sir!" cried Willie with delight. "Tiny an' me wouldadmire to have you come whenever the cravin' strikes you. We'realmighty fond of Bob, an' any friends of his will always be welcome."

  The little old man went with them to the car and loitered to watch themroll away.

  "You'll see me back to-night," called Bob from the front seat.

  "Not to-night, to-morrow," Roger corrected laughingly.

  "Well, to-morrow then," smiled the young man.

  The engine pulsed, there was a quick throb of energy, and off theysped. Almost without a sound the motor shot along the sand of theHarbor Road and whirled into the pine-shaded thoroughfare that ledtoward Belleport.

  "A fine old fellow that!" mused Mr. Galbraith aloud. "What a pity hecould not have had his chance in life."

  Bob nodded.

  "I suppose he hasn't a cent to carry out any of these schemes of his."

  "No, I am afraid he hasn't."

  The financier lit a cigar and puffed at it in thoughtful silence.

  "That motor-boat idea of his now--why, if it could be perfected andboomed properly, it would make his fortune."

  "Do you think so?"

  "I know it."

  Again the humming of the engine was the only sound.

  "Do you know, Bob, I've half a mind to get Snelling down here and sethim to work at that job. What should you say?"

  "Snelling? You mean the expert from your ship-building plant?"

  "Yes. Wouldn't it be a good plan?"

  Robert Morton hesitated.

  "There is no question that a man of Mr. Snelling's ability would be atremendous asset in handling such a proposition," he agreed cautiously.

  "Snelling could drop in as if to see you," went on the capitalist."You could fix up all that so there would not be any need of the oldfellow suspecting who he was. Once there he could pitch in and helpthe scheme along. It is going to be quite an undertaking before youget through with it, and the more hands there are to carry it out, thebetter, in my opinion."

  "Yes, it is going to be much more of a job than I realized at first,"Bob admitted. "It certainly would be a great help to have Mr.Snelling's aid. But could you spare him? And would he want to comeand duff in on this sort of an enterprise?"

  "If I telegraphed Snelling to come he would come; and when here hewould do whatever he was told," replied Mr. Galbraith, bringing hislips sharply together.

  "It's very kind of you!"

  "Pooh! the idea amuses me. I'll provide any materials you may need,too. Snelling shall have an order to that effect so that he can callon the Long Island plant for anything he wants."

  "That will be splendid, Mr. Galbraith; but where do you come in?"

  "I'll have my fun, never you fear," returned the capitalist. "In thefirst place I'd like nothing better than to do that little old fellow agood turn. There is something pathetic about him. Sometimes it ishard to believe that life gives everybody a square deal, isn't it?That man, for instance. He has the brain and the creative impulse, buthe has been cheated of his opportunity. I should enjoy giving him aboost. Occasionally I fling away a small sum on a whim that catches myfancy; now its German marks, now an abandoned farm. This time it shallbe Mr. Willie Spence and his motor-boat idee."

  He laughed.

  "I appreciate it tremendously," Bob said.

  "There, there, we won't speak of it any more," the elder man protested,cutting him short. "I will telegraph Snelling and you may arrange therest. The old inventor isn't to suspect a thing--remember."

  "No, sir."

  "That is all, then."

  With a finality Robert Morton dared not transgress, the older manlapsed into silence and Bob had no choice but to suppress his gratitudeand resign himself to listening to the rhythmic beat of theautomobile's great engine.