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 ashore? 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.