As she sat there entranced, listening to the enchanting music, watching each gliding movement of the dancer, she became more and more convinced that her good pal of other days, the little French girl, Petite Jeanne, was really there within a stone’s throw of her, dancing as she had never danced before.
“But why?” she asked herself. “Why?”
Jeanne, who had been adopted by gypsies, had at last found true kinfolks in France. She had inherited an ancient castle. Florence believed her rich. And yet here she was, dancing as in those old golden days when they were all very poor and happy together.
Involuntarily Florence allowed her mind to drift back over days that were gone. She saw Jeanne dancing with a bear, before the hedges of France, saw her in the wilds of this very northland, and then in a poor tenement of Chicago. She rejoiced with her again as she recalled her success and triumph as a dancer in light opera.
“And now?” she whispered. She was unable to answer her own question, but her heart yearned to know.
“Perhaps she is still rich,” she thought. “This may be her own yacht. She may be dancing for her guests.” Of this she could not be sure. One resolve she made at once, Jeanne should not be disturbed by an old friend in soiled slacks.
“Very soon,” she thought, “the yacht will leave the dock, the music grow faint in the distance, and Jeanne, like a spirit, will float away into the night.”
“Like a spirit,” she repeated musingly. “Jeanne was always like that, always kind, a great friend, but never quite like other humans.”
The dance went on. Again and again, in response to applause, the swaying figure returned to the deck.
There came at last a time when neither applause nor bewitching music could lure her from her retreat.
“She is gone,” Florence thought, in a dreamy mood, “disappeared down a moonbeam.”
How true this was she was to know soon enough. The deck of the boat was all aglow, but the broad dock was in the shadows. Hidden by these shadows was a little group of onlookers—a cook from the lodge, two roustabouts, a sailor or two. With them were Dave and Rufus. Gliding along in the shadows a slender figure approached this group, whispered a question or two, received her answers, then vanished into the night.
Two minutes later, to her great astonishment, Florence heard her name called ever so softly:
“Florence! Florence! Where are you?”
The big girl thrilled to her fingertips, but did not answer at once.
“Florence!” again the low silvery voice called. “Where are you? It is I, Petite Jeanne. I have come all this way to find you!”
“Here!” The big girl’s voice was husky. She was on her feet now. Tears of joy were in her eyes. “Here. On the rock!”
“Ah!” Jeanne murmured, quoting from a very old book, “Lead me to a rock that is higher than I.” And then they who had had so many adventures together were in each other’s arms.
“But Jeanne!” Florence exclaimed a half-hour later. “You can’t come with us! You truly can’t!”
“Oh! Can I not?” Jeanne stood up slim and straight as a silver moonbeam.
“Of course not!” Florence tried to be firm. “We are going into a battle. The island is on fire. It will be a battle of storm, flame and smoke. But we must save our beautiful island.”
“And is it not my island?” Jeanne demanded. “Did I not live in a wrecked ship off its very shores? And were you not my very good companion?”
“Yes,” Florence agreed, “but now you belong to France.”
“France,” the little French girl’s voice dropped, “In my so beautiful France everyone is poor again. No rich American will rent my gloomy castle. So—” she breathed, “So here I am!”
“You have rich friends,” Florence suggested, nodding toward the yacht.
“Oh these!” Jeanne tossed her fair head. “Yes, these are friends. They are very kind indeed. They like me to dance so they bring me with them.
“Good people they are, too,” she added, more quietly. “Some are very famous. One writes books, one paints pictures of great rocks, one goes to cold, cold, countries to explore and one he is very rich.
“But you!” she exclaimed, “You are my friend of many, many days. It is in the lines of our hands, it is written in the stars, that we shall be together. Always and always!” Her voice rose.
“All—all right,” Florence surrendered. “Have you any clothes?”
“But yes!” the little French girl exclaimed, “I am prepared. In my locker are slacks of midnight blue. And my blouses, they are orange. Like a flame of fire are these.”
“Like a flame,” Florence laughed. “All too soon they will be like smoke. Look!” Springing to her feet, she pointed down the bay, “See! There is your flame!”
At that moment the red threat against the sky flared anew. Jeanne shuddered. As for Florence, she was thinking of the boys back there fighting the flames in the night, thinking, too, of the gay party on the rich man’s yacht, of young men in white flannels and girls in evening gowns. Then, down deep in her heart, a great wonder possessed her.
Of a sudden her thoughts were brought back to her immediate surroundings. Bobbing up and down in the low bushes beneath the rock some creature came racing toward them.
“Wha-what on earth is that?” Florence exclaimed.
“Oh! that’s Plumdum,” Jeanne cried. Sliding off the rocks, she gathered some wriggling, woolly creature in her arms.
“We don’t let him out when I dance. He wants to dance and doesn’t know how.”
“But Plumdum?” Florence exclaimed. “What is he?”
“Just my dog,” said Jeanne, holding him up to view. “My very good friend Plumdum.”
“Funny name,” said Florence. “How do you spell it?”
“Oh, that,” Jeanne giggled, “I didn’t give him the name. It was a redcap in a railroad station who gave it to him, though I guess he didn’t mean to. He’s the one who told me how to spell it too. But I guess he didn’t really know how, not really—”
“Jeanne,” Florence exploded, “What you’re saying doesn’t make sense!”
“I’m sorry,” Jeanne apologized, “I’ll tell you how it was. I had fallen in love with this dog; saw him in a pet store window. He—he sort of winked at me, so I just went in and bought him.”
“Of course,” Florence agreed.
“And then,” Jeanne heaved a sigh, “he didn’t have any name. Well I went into the railway station and the redcap took the beast and tried to steer him through the crowd. He kept dodging between people and under their feet. At last the redcap got disgusted and said, ‘Miss, that thar dorg is plumdum!’
“‘Is he?’ I asked. I was all excited. I thought that was his real name. GuessIwas dumb. But I said, ‘How do you spell it?’ He said, ‘What Miss?’ I said, ‘Plumdum.’ He said, ‘Miss, I ain’t never been no spellin’ champeen, but near as I can figger it’s P-l-u-m-d-u-m.’”
“He was trying to tell you your dog was plumb dumb,” Florence laughed.
“Yes, to be sure,” Jeanne answered. “All the same, that’s his name!”
“And does it fit?” asked Florence.
“Not always,” Jeanne replied slowly. “Sometimes he’s almost human.” This last Florence was to learn in the days that were to come. In the drama of one crowded hour Plumdum was to play an important role.
But now Florence sprang to her feet, “Come on!” she exclaimed. “If you’re going with us you’ll have to get your things together, dark blue slacks, orange blouses—everything. We’re going to Tobin’s Harbor.”
“Tonight?” Jeanne demanded.
“In an hour.”
“Bon! Mon cher. Tout de suite!” Jeanne was off the rocks and away.
Following slowly, Florence at last reached the docks. There among the shadows she came upon a young man, little more than a boy. He was standing there looking away at the midnight fire.
She had time to think, “Interesting profile,” then he turned around and saw her.
“Hello, sister,” he said in a friendly voice. “Where did you come from? What do you do here?”
“We take people from here to there and back again,” she laughed quietly. “And,” she added, “sometimes we fight fires. Today we had a terrific battle.”
“Fire? Where?” The young man seemed surprised.
“Look.” She led him to the opposite corner of the dock, “See that red spot?”
“Fire, all right,” the other agreed. “Will they get it out?”
“Who knows?” There was a sombre note in the girl’s voice. “Just think! All this beauty, and that fire!”
“I am thinking,” said the young man soberly. “Tell me about it.”
Florence did tell him, told of the day’s battle, told it with all the drama and feeling of her emotional nature.
“Say-e-e!” the young man exclaimed. “That will be a grand spot on my program! Will you come to New York?”
“New—New York!” she stammered, “On your program!”
“Sure,” he laughed, “I’m Tim O’Hara. I plan and prepare radio programs. Just now I’m working on one to be called ‘Adventurers’ Club of the Air.’ Many people who have had a real adventure will get a trip to New York, all expenses paid, and a grand chance to tell the story of their adventures to the nation, coast to coast, seventy-nine stations. You’ve had a real adventure, why not come?”
“Oh!” Florence gasped. Then, “No—no—I couldn’t. Not now. Perhaps not for months. There’s going to be a battle, a terrific battle. I’m sure of it, and we—we must do our part.”
“Say! That’s the spirit!” Tim voiced his approval in no uncertain tones. “But you’ll come, in the end—I know you will. New York. Ever dream of that great city?”
“Yes, yes, often.”
“And the radio? Coast to coast?”
“Yes, that too.”
“Then you’ll come and you’ll have much more to tell.”
“Will I?” The girl wondered and shuddered.
“Here’s my card.” He thrust a pasteboard square into her hand. “Guard it with care.”
“Next to my heart!” she laughed as she thrust it deep into her blouse pocket.
Then she caught Jeanne’s call, “Florence, where are you?”
“I’m off,” she breathed. “We sail at once—‘Ships that pass in the night.’”
“Sometimes they meet again!” His voice was low. “Here’s hoping!”
At Tobin’s Harbor Florence experienced a new thrill. Though the hour was near midnight, the small dock was crowded. “What of the fire? What about the fire?” they demanded anxiously.
Close beside her, as she stood on the dock telling of the fire, was a slender woman—a fisherman’s wife—listening intently. In her arms she held a child. A second child tugged at her skirts. Her all, Florence knew well, was on Isle Royale. Across the narrow bay was her spotless cabin and before the cabin a neat fish house and many nets on reels. She and her husband had toiled hard to build their happy home, and now, if the fire came, all would be lost.
Standing on the other side of her, leaning on a cane, was a man well past eighty. Every summer for forty years he had made a pilgrimage to Isle Royale. His cabin stood overlooking the rocks on the Point.
“There are scores like him,” the girl thought. “Some young, some old. If the fire reaches their cabins, their joyous summers will be at an end.” Her gaze moved slowly across the placid waters of the long, narrow bay. Primeval forest, dark spruce and fir, beautiful white birch ghosts in the moonlight lined the shores. Suddenly something catching her eye caused her to start. Beyond the dark fringe of evergreen that lined the distant horizon was a long, thin line of red. From time to time, like a finger of fate, a pencil of this red glow shot skyward, then faded into the night.
“Dave, look!” she sought his attention. “The fire!”
“Beauty and a threat!” he murmured with feeling. “We must do what we can for these people and their island.”
Three days later theWandererwas at Houghton on the mainland. Events had moved rapidly. A strong gale had driven the fire on the now flaming island beyond the control of the small band of camp workers who had volunteered anew to fight it. Rapidly formed plans for a battle on a large scale had already been laid. TheIroquoishad been taken off the run to the island. It was to carry fire fighters and their supplies to hastily constructed camps on Isle Royale shores.
“That gives us a break,” Florence, a born optimist, exclaimed.
“It would,” Dave said, “if anyone wanted to go to the island, but this fire will scare them away. Besides—” he hesitated.
“Besides what?” Florence demanded.
“Nothing much,” Dave looked away, “only, do you remember that big man who was angry because we went into Siskowit?”
“Yes, what—”
“I met him on the street today. He said, ‘I hear you’ve only a sixty-day temporary permit.’ I said, ‘They’ll renew it,’ and he said, ‘Oh, yeah? That’s what you think!’”
“And now you don’t think you’ll get it?” Florence asked soberly.
“I don’t know what to think,” Dave replied. “One thing’s sure, if they don’t renew it, we’re sunk.”
The moment they arrived at Houghton, Florence wrote her grandfather.
“We’ve been betrayed. We’ve been led into an unwise investment, and it was your money. Even in good times there are few passengers to the island. Now there is a fire, and no one will come. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. There isn’t a chance that we shall more than break even. Of course, with this threat of fire there is opportunity for service. And how it will be appreciated!”
“We’ve been betrayed. We’ve been led into an unwise investment, and it was your money. Even in good times there are few passengers to the island. Now there is a fire, and no one will come. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. There isn’t a chance that we shall more than break even. Of course, with this threat of fire there is opportunity for service. And how it will be appreciated!”
Continuing, she wrote of the kindly fisher-folk whose cabins nestled among the trees, and of the old time cottagers who made the island their summer home.
“If we stand by to help them off the island in case disaster threatens, it will be, I think, a great service. But will it pay? What shall we do? It’s your boat. You must decide.”
“If we stand by to help them off the island in case disaster threatens, it will be, I think, a great service. But will it pay? What shall we do? It’s your boat. You must decide.”
The answer came by return mail. “Stand by to serve,” her grandfather wrote.
“An opportunity to serve where service is appreciated is a gift of God.“Just now something is happening to you and, if I read your letter correctly, you are taking it just as it should be taken. And that is all that matters. Might I add that life need never be a bitter struggle. It may always be a glorious adventure!”
“An opportunity to serve where service is appreciated is a gift of God.
“Just now something is happening to you and, if I read your letter correctly, you are taking it just as it should be taken. And that is all that matters. Might I add that life need never be a bitter struggle. It may always be a glorious adventure!”
There his letter ended.
Florence read it, her heart swelling, “Good old granddaddy,” she murmured. “I only hope we may yet find a way out.” She was thinking now of money.
The very next day, just as darkness was falling, theWandererand her gallant crew found themselves once more in a precarious situation on Isle Royale. They were at Chippewa Harbor. Here a brave little fishing family had taken its stand against all sorts of adversity and had won. Their neat home, their stout little dock, and three tiny tourist cabins showed all this. Of all the people on the island, the Carlsons of Chippewa Harbor had interested Florence most. Perhaps this was because, unlike other fisher-folk of the island, they did not leave when winter’s ice threatened to close their harbor. Instead, they ordered many sacks of flour, sugar and potatoes. To these were added hams and slabs of bacon, cases of milk, fruit and vegetables and all else that might be needed.
Then, with bleak winter winds blowing, they settled down to six months of isolation. During all that time, boats neither came nor went. They were there alone. Isle Royale was their home.
Working like beavers, they cut logs for tourist cabins, mended their nets and made all needed preparations for a successful season.
Besides the fisherman and his wife there were Ve and Vi, as they called themselves, girls of Florence’s own age, and some younger brothers—a happy family.
Chippewa Harbor, too, was a spot that had made many a heart beat faster. A break in the Island’s rocky wall, it stretched back through a narrow channel to a broader bay, where giant spruce trees towered above massive palisades. Here, in the still hour of evening, one might rest on his oars to watch the sun go down over the dark green treetops and dream, transported to another world.
Ah, yes, Florence was ready to fight for Chippewa Harbor. And at this moment it was in great need of a champion. For by great misfortune, this would be the first tiny settlement to be reached by the fire if it came, and at that moment it was coming fast. They could see it crawling, leaping, rushing along the ridges. They could hear it snapping and roaring not two miles away. So sudden had been its advance that no fire fighters had yet arrived. Only theWanderer, with her one small pump, was standing by.
The entrance to Chippewa Harbor is narrow and rocky. A storm was roaring in from the lake. In an hour it might be impossible for theWandererto leave the harbor. Perhaps, too, in that hour, the roaring fire would be upon the fishing village.
“I think,” said the fisherman, scanning first the fire, then the sky, “that you better put out into open water.”
“But your home, your cabins, everything you have!” Dave protested. “Our pump may save them!”
The fisherman shrugged his shoulders, but did not speak. About him was gathered his family—his wife, Ve and Vi, and three small sons. They, too, were strangely silent.
“No,” said Dave. “We stay!”
Darkness fell. Only the leaping flames lighted the dark waters of the harbor. It was a dramatic moment. Even Jeanne, always so full of life and chatter, was silent. Indeed, during the days that had passed, Jeanne had seemed a little strange. She took small part in their planning for the future. It was almost as if she were an honored guest aboard theWanderer. The time was to come, however, when she and Plumdum would do their bit. But for the moment, even the curly-haired dog, awed by the roaring lake waters close by and the glare of the fire some distance away, was silent.
“Look!” Florence exclaimed in sudden consternation, as she pointed toward the crest of Greenstone Ridge that, rising a full three hundred feet, extends from one end of Isle Royale to the other. “Look up there! A fresh fire is starting!”
“Another fire,” the fisherman murmured hoarsely, “how do they start?”
At once Florence recalled those mysterious words spoken in the dark—“‘Dese fires dey iss bein’ set.’” Were they?
“It seems to blink,” said Dave. “Strange sort of fire, I’d say. That—why, that’s not a fire!” he exclaimed excitedly. “At least not a forest fire. It’s a campfire. Looks like a signal fire as well. Watch! It’s gone. Now it’s there again. Watch! And now—say! They’re signaling in Morse code. Wait! Let me see if I can get their message!”
And so with the forest fire not two miles away creeping toward them and roaring at them, the little group, unable for the moment to do anything to save themselves or property, stood silent, watching, completely forgetting their own troubles because of their interest in others who might be in distress.
As for Florence, she was thinking of that message which had become deeply impressed upon her mind. The message, as you may recall, had been concerned with a red-and-black boat, a gray-haired man, and a girl of sixteen.
This message once more passed through the girl’s mind, “Important! To all lodgekeepers and captains of ships touching at Isle Royale. Be on the lookout for a red-and-black boat. Tall, gray-haired man, girl of sixteen on board. Important! Be on the lookout!”
“Is this their campfire up on that rocky ridge?” she asked herself.
“Yes.” It was Dave who spoke. “They must be in trouble. Their message is just one word, ‘Help!’”
“But what could have happened?” demanded Vi Carlson, one of the daughters of the fisherman. “All they’ve got to do is come down the ridge.”
“Yes, but if one of them were sick or injured,” Florence’s brow wrinkled. “And see!” she cried in fresh alarm. “Thereisa tongue of flame farther down the ridge. There is a second fire after all. If no one goes to help them they may be trapped.”
“We might go, you and I,” Dave suggested. “I’ll get a square of canvas. Might need it to make a stretcher. Then we’ll be off.” He hurried away.
“There’s a trail to Lake Ritchie and a moose path up the ridge,” Ve Carlson, the other daughter of the fisherman volunteered. “I—I’ll show you the way. You’d never find the way by yourselves. Come on,” Ve was off.
For a time, guided by the gleam of a flashlight, they marched along in silence. Once a moose sprang from the trail to go crashing through the brush. “A thousand moose on the island,” Florence thought. “They may all be destroyed by the fire.”
“Isle Royale has always been my home,” Vi broke the silence at last.
“Always, winter and summer?” Florence asked.
“Two winters we went to the mainland. Since then, fish have been cheap. Times have been hard. We couldn’t afford to go. They sent us a teacher, so we stayed here. We’ve graduated from high school,” Vi laughed low, “my sister and I, in a log cabin school.
“We go up here,” she said at last. “The moose trail is terrible, but we—we’ll make it.”
And they did. With the beacon campfire as their guide, they climbed until at last, with a cry of victory, they burst in upon the astonished and overjoyed campers.
“A red-and-black boat, a gray-haired man and a sixteen-year-old girl,” Florence quoted, scarcely realizing what she was saying.
“You’ve got our number,” laughed a tall, thin, gray-haired man. “But how did you know all this?”
“They’ve been broadcasting about you for days,” said Florence.
“See, Grandfather!” the strange girl exclaimed. “I told you they’d find us.”
“Yes, and for once I’m glad to be found.” The man laughed low. “This is growing a bit thick—a fire to the right of us, one to the left of us, and I not able to walk a step. Badly sprained ankle,” he explained.
“You see,” he went on, “Beth and I decided to make a secret visit to this beautiful island.”
“Grandfather’s always so busy,” the girl put in. “So we just ran away.”
“Today was the first time we knew of the fire,” said the gray-haired man. “Been on the other side of the island. When we saw it we got all excited, and I took the wrong kind of step. So here we are. Looks dangerous to me. Think we’d better get going?”
“No-o,” Dave looked away to the southwest. “It’s going to storm. Getting down’s going to be slow. The fire won’t get here for three hours at best.”
“So we’d better weather the storm in the little tent I carried on my back for just this purpose.” The old man smiled.
“That’s it,” Dave agreed.
“You may have been wondering,” the gray-haired man said, after the tent had been set up and they were comfortably seated inside, “why Beth didn’t go for help, when she found I could not walk properly. Truth is, she refused to go.” He chuckled.
“Why should I?” the girl demanded, “The fire was coming our way. There was no one on our side of the island. We had been alone there. I did see a light down on your side but knew nothing about you people. Besides, these trails are terrible.”
“Mostly no trails,” Florence agreed.
“I might have been lost in some swamp. The fire might have come while I was gone,” the girl shuddered. “So, I stayed. At long last, I might have been able to help him down.”
“Brave girl,” the old man placed a hand on her shoulder.
The changing scenes that passed before the eyes of the small group on Greenstone Ridge during the next hour would never be forgotten. Below them, seeming so near that they could reach out and touch them, were the lights of theWandererand the fisherman’s cabin shining through the darkness. At a greater distance, brilliant and menacing against the blackness of evergreen forests and water, was the fire. Creeping slowly, flaring up here, dying down there, but ever moving forward, it threatened in time to destroy Chippewa Harbor’s little world. Back of all this, rolling in across the waters, was a storm. Now faint flashes of light were seen. Low rumbles were heard.
“If only it would rain hard!” Florence wished.
But what was this? Across the waters, slowly moving lights approached Chippewa.
“Hurray!” Dave shouted, as he read their meaning. “It’s a ship. It must be Captain Frey and his boys! Reinforcements!” Fresh hope shone in his eyes.
Scarcely had the lights of the newly-arrived ship blended with those of theWandererthan there came a vivid flash, a roar of thunder, and large, cold raindrops began to fall.
“It’s the end,” breathed Florence, “the end of our battle with the fire.”
“No,” said the gray-haired man, wiser in these things than the girl knew, “it is not the end, only a truce. The battle will be renewed.”
How right he was the girl was soon to know. The rain did not last long. It made little impression on the blazing spruce trees. The wind changed, however, driving the fire back, and for the time being, Chippewa Harbor was safe.
Two hours later, after a hard but successful struggle to bring the crippled man back to civilization, Florence climbed wearily into her bunk for a few snatches of sleep.
Early as it was, when she came on deck next morning Florence found the slim, gray-haired man in a steamer chair.
“Now that we’ve found you,” she said with a laugh, “what do we do with you?”
“Just anything,” he smiled.
“That’s easy.”
“Where do you go from here,” he asked, “and what do you do?”
“We touch at the old lighthouse, where we tell the fishermen that the fire is pretty bad, but that we know hundreds of men are coming to fight it, and we feel sure they’ll win.”
“And after that?” He was still smiling.
“Rock Harbor Lodge is next. We tell them the same thing. Then Tobin’s Harbor. We’ll tell them not to worry; that if the fire threatens them, we’ll be right there to take them off.”
“And what do you get for all this?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she smiled back at him. “That is, no money—just satisfaction—heaps and heaps of satisfaction.”
“Then,” he looked at her in a puzzling manner, “after you’ve done these acts of kindness, you might run us round to McCargo’s Cove and pick up our small boat. We left it there. You shall be paid in cash for this service,” he added with a laugh.
“And then?” she queried.
“Do you return to the mainland?”
“We must, for fuel and possible passengers.”
“Then we’ll ride there with you. More money!” he laughed happily. “Why, you’ll be rolling in wealth!”
“At least,” she agreed, “we can pay for our fuel, and that’s something!”
As they made the rounds of fishing villages and lodges that day, it was the same old story—worried, anxious faces and whispered rumors of disaster for all of them in the near future. This brought theWanderer’screw a harvest of a sort. Lodge guests were anxious to leave the island. It became evident that when the boat headed for Houghton its decks would be lined with paying passengers. This brought a happy smile to the big girl’s face. “Perhaps,” she was thinking, “things will not be so bad after all.”
As for Jeanne, she was the life of the party. Donning a pair of coveralls miles too large for her, she staged a ludicrous dance she called “The Deckhands Promenade.”
When at last guests dragged a fiddle and a guitar from their baggage and sent a wailing, thumping tune drifting across the dark waters, she disappeared, to come popping out in her silver robe, and to execute a true gypsy dance that charmed her small audience.
“Jeanne, you are a grand prize!” Florence exclaimed when she had finished. “If only there were no fire, and this were a regular summer, you would charm all those land-loving people into a visit to our island just to see you dance!”
“Ah, well,” Jeanne replied soberly, “perhaps I shall yet dance before the flames and lead them into the waters where they will drown.”
“Yes,” Florence agreed, with a laugh, “the way the Pied Piper led the rats into the sea.”
Truly, things were looking up a little for young Skipper Dave and his crew. One thing was disturbing. Wherever they docked they heard this complaint, hundreds of men were arriving to fight the fire, theIroquoiswas bringing them, but there was lack of organization and very little was being accomplished.
“If only Chips was here,” said a grizzled fisherman, as Dave and Florence left his dock. Strangely enough, they heard this again and again, always spoken by old men and with great respect, “If only Chips was here. If only Chips—”
Dave exclaimed at last, “I’d sure like to be that man Chips! Wonder if he’s real, or only a myth.”
“Wait and see,” said Florence.
If Florence had hoped that the gray-haired man whom they had rescued in such a dramatic manner, with his granddaughter, from Greenstone ridge, would, before leaving the boat, reveal his identity, she was doomed to disappointment. After paying his bill he gave directions for having his boat and other belongings taken ashore, then lost himself in the crowd that lined the dock seeking information regarding the fire.
“We haven’t seen the last of him,” Dave prophesied. “He wasn’t on the island just for a vacation, you may depend upon that.”
Was Dave right? What would that mean to their young lives if he were. To these questions Florence could form no answers.
“Took in one hundred and forty dollars this trip,” Dave exulted as he walked into town with Florence. “First thing we know we’ll be making money!”
Would they? For once Florence dared hope. Perhaps this fire was a blessing in disguise. With theIroquoisoff the run, with army officers and park officials in a hurry to reach the island, and with a few daring souls still ready to spend a short vacation on the island, it did seem that they might hope. And yet, before nightfall hope had vanished.
It was two hours after they had docked. Florence was busy tidying up her galley when a gay party of six, three men and their wives, all attired in the latest sports togs, appeared on the dock.
“Is this the boat that goes to Isle Royale?” they asked.
“Yes, but—” Florence hesitated, “perhaps you haven’t heard—the island’s on fire.”
“Oh, yes, we’ve heard,” one of the women enthused. “That makes it all the more exciting. When do we sail?”
“Tomorrow evening at eight o’clock is our regular time.”
“Six round trip tickets,” the girl was thinking. “Sixty dollars. And perhaps—yes, there were three young officers coming down the dock—ninety dollars. Wonderful!”
But wait! There was a disturbance—the stout man who had taken such a dislike to Florence and Dave that first day of the fire, drew one of the six would-be passengers aside. Florence did not hear what he said, but, with a sinking heart, she saw him pointing to a large speedboat tied up at a smaller dock.
The man returned. There was a conference among the six prospective passengers. Florence caught only the words, “Speedboat! How thrilling!”
Turning to Florence, the little lady with the shining eyes said in an apologetic voice, “I—we’re so sorry, dear. We’ve decided to take the speedboat. Think of it! We can be over there in two hours, and it will be so thrilling!”
Florence made no reply. What was there to say? There was a sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach. Her shoulders drooped. “So that’s it!” she thought. “That man’s going into competition with us. He’s got influence. He’ll see that our license to carry passengers is not renewed. And yet,” her body stiffened, “he can’t keep us from serving the people of the island. We can still stand by.”
Then a strange thing happened. As the sunlight slowly receded from the summit of Copper Range, a short, stout man appeared on the dock. To Florence his dress seemed odd. A broad-brimmed black hat, blue shirt, overalls, cut off six inches from the ground and not hemmed, and high topped boots of coarse leather clothed the man. What he said gave her a start.
“I’m Chips.”
“Mr. Chips!”
“Just plain Chips,” the man corrected. “I want to go to Isle Royale.”
“Yes,” the girl exclaimed. “They want you and need you. The island is in flames.”
“I know. When do we sail?” Chips was all business.
“Why, ri-right away.” Florence took one bold fling at life. What would Dave say? Turning about, she set her boat whistle waking echoes among the sun-tipped hills.
Dave came on the run. “What’s the rumpus? What’s up?” he demanded.
“This,” she said, with as much dignity as she could command, “this is Chips. The island needs him. We’re sailing as soon as possible, that is—” her voice trailed off, “if you’re agreed.”
Dave said, “O. K. by me,” and it was done. One passenger. Ten dollars.
This was not the last unusual incident of that day—there was more to come. Chips had gone for his luggage. Florence was slowly pacing the deck when a girl shorter and broader than herself appeared before her on the dock.
“I am Katie,” said the girl. Florence knew she must be a Finlander.
“Katie who?” Florence smiled.
“I am Katie Eskelund,” said the girl. “And I am going to Isle Royale.”
“What place on Isle Royale?” Florence asked.
“Siskowit Bay.” The girl lowered a heavy blanket roll to the dock.
“She’s strong,” Florence thought, “strong as a man. How she could send a boat through the water!”
“Siskowit?” she said. “There are no women there. Only men and boys.”
“My brother is there,” said Katie. “He is fighting fire. I shall stay with him. I can fight fire.”
“Why! They won’t let you,” Florence exclaimed. “It’s a boys’ camp!”
“So-o,” the Finnish girl’s face clouded. “But my brother is there,” she insisted. “We are twins.”
“Oh!” Florence had some notion of what it meant to be a twin. She wanted to help this girl. But how?
Seized by a sudden inspiration she demanded, “Can you cook? Can you make pasties?”
“Oh, yes! Very good pasties.”
Pasties! How Florence’s mouth watered. Good little turnover pies all filled with meat, made only as the people of strange little Finland knew how.
Just then Dave came up from below. “Dave,” Florence smiled in spite of herself, “do you think we could use a cook on theWanderer?”
“We—we might,” Dave seemed a little puzzled. “Come to think of it,” he added after a brief pause, “it would help. Looks to me as if we were stepping into something rather big. May be a day-and-night affair before we’re through. You’re O.K. for a cook but not twenty-four hours a day. And Jeanne, she’s fine, but a bit of a butterfly, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps,” Florence agreed, “anyway I want you to meet Katie. She’s no butterfly.” Katie grinned good-naturedly. “She wants to be our cook. She can make pasties.”
“Pasties. Oh! Boy!” Dave grinned. “Sure. Take her on.”
“I can make bread, too,” Katie volunteered eagerly. “Saffron buns and everything!”
Florence did not know what saffron buns were, but decided she could stand them at least once.
“All right,” she said, with a note of finality, “you are hired. Then perhaps you will see your brother now and then. You shall be our cook. That is,” her voice dropped, “if you want to.”
For answer, Katie Eskelund tumbled her blanketroll over the rail. That is how theWanderercame by a new cook. And she was a cook indeed!
At eleven o’clock that same night Florence awoke. She was wide-awake. A feeling that all was not well disturbed her. What could it be? Were they having engine trouble? Had there been tampering on board? No, the motor throbbed sweetly. Was there a storm? Only a choppy sea that should have rocked her to sleep.
A breath of cold air brushed her cheek. Her stateroom door was open. How come? She sat up. The roll of the boat had banged it open. But look! She now stared away at the black waters. Had she caught a gleam of light out there? It did not seem probable. They were halfway across the lake, thirty-five miles from anywhere. And yet—yes, there it was! She saw it plainly now.
“It blinks!” she exclaimed aloud. “Distress signal! Oh, dear!” she sighed. “It seems as if the whole world’s in trouble.”
Hurriedly drawing on dressing gown and slippers, she climbed out into the chill air of night to find Dave in the pilothouse.
“Dave,” she said, “there’s a light out there. It blinks as if someone were in trouble. We—We’ll have to put about and go to his aid, won’t we?”
“Yes, I—I suppose so.”
“I’m going to make a big pot of coffee.” Dave twisted the ship’s wheel, turning theWanderertoward the signaling light.