"Perhaps not."
"There is, I tell you. I know Janoah Eldridge from crown to heel, an' it ain't like him to go off fishin' by himself."
"I shouldn't fret about it if I were you," Bob said in an attempt to comfort the disquieted inventor. "I'm sure he'll turn up all right."
Had the conversation been of a three-master in a gale; of buried treasure; or of the ultimate salvation of the damned, the speaker would at that moment have been equally optimistic.
The universe had suddenly become too radiant a place to harbor calamity. Wilton was a paradise like the first Eden—a garden of smiles, of dimples, of blushing cheeks—and of silver buckles.
He began to whistle softly to himself; then, sensing that Willie was still unconvinced by his sanguine prediction, he added:
"And even if Mr. Eldridge shouldn't come back, I guess you and I could manage without him."
"That's all very well up to a certain point, youngster," was the retort. "But who's goin' to see me through this job after you've taken wing?"
He pointed tragically to the beginnings of the model.
"Maybe I shan't take wing," announced Bob, looking absently at the cluster of withered roses in his hand. "You—you see," he went on, endeavoring to speak in off-hand fashion, "I've been thinking things over and—and—I've about come to the conclusion—"