“Well, then, I’m afraid it is worse than the coffer-dam,” he answered in all seriousness.  “It may be a matter of twelve or fifteen thousand dollars—­maybe more, if we have to rebuild the ‘fill.’  I can’t tell yet.”

Ruth released her grasp, moved to the sofa and sank down, her chin resting on her hand.  Twelve or fifteen thousand dollars!  This meant ruin to everybody—­to her father, to—­a new terror now flashed into her mind—­to Jack—­yes, Jack!  Jack would have to go away and find other work—­and just at the time, too, when he was getting to be the old Jack once more.  With this came another thought, followed by an instantaneous decision—­what could she do to help?  Already she had determined on her course.  She would work —­support herself—­relieve her father just that much.

An uncomfortable silence followed.  For some moments no one spoke.  Her father, stifling a sigh, turned slowly, pushed a chair to the fire and settled into it, his rubber-encased knees wide apart, so that the warmth of the blaze could reach most of his body.  Jack found a seat beside him, his mind on Ruth and her evident suffering, his ears alert for any fresh word from his Chief.

“I forgot to tell you, Breen,” MacFarlane said at last, “that I came up the track just now as far as the round-house with the General Manager of the Road.  He has sent one of his engineers to look after that Irishman’s job before he can pull it to pieces to hide his rotten work—­that is, what is left of it.  Of course it means a lawsuit or a fight in the Village Council.  That takes time and money, and generally costs more than you get.  I’ve been there before, Breen, and know.”

“Does he understand about McGowan’s contract?” inquired Jack mechanically, his eyes on Ruth.  Her voice still rang in his ears—­ its pathos and suffering stirred him to his very depths.

“Yes—­I told him all about it,” MacFarlane replied.  “The Road will stand behind us—­so the General Manager says—­but every day’s delay is ruinous to them.  It will be night-and-day work for us now, and no let-up.  I have notified the men.”  He rose from his seat and crossed to his daughter’s side, and leaning over, drew her toward him:  “Brace up, little girl,” there was infinite tenderness in his cadences—­“it’s all in a lifetime.  There are only two of us, you know—­just you and me, daughter—­just you and me—­just two of us.  Kiss me, Puss.”

Regaining his full height he picked up his storm-coat from the chair where he had flung it, and with the remark to Jack, that he would change his clothes, moved toward the door.  There he beckoned to him, waited until he had reached his side, and whispering in his ear:  “Talk to her and cheer her up, Breen.  Poor little girl—­ she worries so when anything like this happens”—­mounted the stairs to his room.

“Don’t worry, Miss Ruth,” said Jack in comforting tones as he returned to where she sat.  “We will all pull out yet.”