As theWanderercame nearer to the blinking signal of distress, it seemed more and more certain that it was approaching some light-buoy and not a boat at all. When at last, however, the beams of the ship’s lights reached the spot, Florence smiled in spite of herself, for the vessel in distress was none other than the speedboat, that, having robbed them of their passengers, had so joyously left the harbor hours before.
“Well, look at that!” Dave exploded, as he signaled for slow speed ahead.
“Oh, it’s you! It’s theWanderer!” a shrill voice screamed.
“That’s the little lady who was going to besothrilled,” Florence remarked.
“She doesn’t seem thrilled now,” said Dave.
“Probably chilled instead,” the girl shuddered.
And chilled it was. “Just think!” one woman exclaimed, as she climbed stiffly on board. “The motor’s dead. Probably it’s going to storm. The cold night. We—”
“And not a blanket, nor bite to eat,” added another. “It was perfectly frightful.”
“Climb right up and come into the cabin,” Florence invited cheerily. “I’ve got a roaring fire and gallons of coffee!”
“Coffee! Hot coffee! Man! Oh, man!” exclaimed the leader of the party. “Take us to it!”
“It was my batteries,” grumbled the stout speedboat man, as he crowded into the cabin after them.
“Started out with bum batteries. That’s b-a-d.” It was Chips who spoke. “But I got some that belong to pumps,” he volunteered. “I’ll lend ’em to you.”
“Not for taking us on to Isle Royale,” exclaimed the leader of the party. “We’re through! No more speedboats for us. We stay right here. What do you say?”
The shouts of approval which rose at this suggestion warmed Florence’s heart.
“What’s more,” the leader fairly bristled, “that money we paid you for the trip!” he shouted at the speedboat man. “Shell out, or we’ll sue you for damages. That money goes to this young skipper and her crew.” He turned to Florence.
“I’m not the skipper,” she protested.
“It’s all the same. What do you say?” he turned on the speedboat man.
“All right!” The man held out a roll of bills.
“Here you are, sister.” After adding one bill, the leader transferred the roll to Florence. “A bit extra for doughnuts and coffee and—and as a penalty for our insulting a real boat.” At this they all laughed.
An hour later theWandererwas once more rolling on her way, and Florence was preparing for ten more winks of sleep. Before her eyes closed, however, her mind ran dreamily to the mysterious Chips and the more mysterious gray-haired man and the girl they had rescued from Greenstone Ridge.
Dawn found theWandererand its passengers at the island. Once they arrived, they were not long in discovering that the man, Chips, had not been over-advertised. Born and bred in the north woods, a natural director of men, he inspired confidence and hope everywhere.
Scarcely had he left the boat when he asked, “Where’s your map? Now where are the fires? There are hundreds of men on the island. Where are they? That’s good! This is bad. Where are the patrol boats? Where’s theIroquois? Move these men. Put pumps there. We’ll make a stand across here: Lake Ritchie, Chickenbone Lake, and McCargo’s Cove. That line must hold. This end of the island must be saved at all cost. See?”
Everyone did see at once; and little by little order was being restored.
“You’ve saved us,” a bearded cottager gripped Florence’s hand. “You young people of theWandererdid it. You brought us Chips. You’ve stood by. We’ll not forget.”
Warmed by this speech and glowing with hope, Florence turned to Dave and exclaimed, “We’ll win now. I know it!”
“Win what?” Dave grinned good-naturedly.
“We’ll save the island.”
“Oh, that. I always knew we would.” Dave laughed.
And yet, would they? After one long, sober thought, Florence was not so sure. There were rumors of a third fire, started several miles from the first two, near Tompsonite Bay, on the farther end of the island.
“Are these fires truly being set?” the girl asked herself. “And if they are, why?” For the moment she found no answer.
After unloading a few groceries at Rock Harbor, they went pop-popping round Schoville’s Point to Tobin’s Harbor Landing, then round to Belle Isle at the north side of the island. Everywhere there was talk of fire, but to Florence’s growing astonishment she caught no word suggesting that the fires might have been set. At last, she all but dismissed the thought from her mind. But not for long.
Isle Royale is forty miles long. The east end broken up into points is like the fingers on a man’s hand. Blake’s Point, which forms the long middle finger, extends far out into Lake Superior. It is here that sturdy fishermen mumble a prayer on nights of storm and fog, for the roar of breaking waves is like the roar of the sea, and great gray walls seem to reach out hands to drag them in.
Once, so we are told, a freighter, carried away by a terrible storm, crushed head on against this wall, and sank. She was loaded with canned salmon. For a long time after that the fishermen caught canned salmon in their nets.
On this day as theWandererrounded this point there was no storm. A lazy breeze pushed a thin, gray haze before it. A seagull soared high. A wild duck swimming before their boat, eyed them for a moment, then rose to go flapping away. Off to the left, perhaps a mile, some objects, a little grayer than the haze, appeared to glide back and forth across the water.
“What is it?” Jeanne asked in surprise.
“The Phantom Fisherman,” Florence said with a low laugh. “He is always there when there is a fog. When you come near him, he fades away into deeper fog.”
“How strange!” said Jeanne, charmed with this note of mystery.
“Probably trolling for lake trout,” said the practical Dave. “There’s a reef out there they call ‘Five Foot’ because it comes within five feet of the surface.”
“The Phantom Fisherman,” Jeanne repeated dreamily.
And so, gliding along between narrow rocky islands, they came once more to Tobin’s Landing. Here they meant to spend the night, and perhaps all the next day. There was a suggestion of storm in the air. A storm from the southwest meant fanned flames and added peril to all. Their great command at this moment appeared to be, “Stand by to serve!”
At Tobin’s harbor all was peace. In this snug little bay the wind had gone to rest. As evening came, the water was like glass. Here spruce and balsam, growing down to the very water’s edge, cast dark green shadows, and there, like fairy maidens in filmy dresses, white birches appeared to bend over and look down into the water’s clear depths.
When the gong sounded for the evening meal, savory odors greeted the crew of theWanderer. Katie’s pasties were all that the heart might desire. The crust melted in one’s mouth and the meat was done to a turn. When it came to her saffron buns, opinion was divided. Jeanne, ever fond of new experiences, pronounced their strange flavor “delicious!” Florence ate them in brave silence, while Dave turned his attention to “good old army bread.”
“Anyway,” Florence said in a low tone, “Katie is a dear, and she’ll be a great help.”
“Yes,” Dave agreed. “And if we’re ever one man short, she can pinch-hit for the best of us.”
As darkness began to fall, weary from the night’s adventure and the day’s toil, Florence sought her berth. But Jeanne, who, like the crickets and katydids, always sang best at night, went on the dock in search of some new and interesting adventure.
She found it in the form of a man with a mass of tangled gray hair and very bright eyes, who sat on the dock, staring dreamily at the moon.
“One doesn’t see the fire tonight,” he said as he rose, and bowing politely, offered her a seat beside him.
“It’s there all the same,” Jeanne said, as she dropped into a chair.
“Of what do you speak?” asked the old man.
“The fire,” said Jeanne. “It’s like some big, red-faced giant, hiding behind the hills. Bye and bye it will pop up all of a sudden and roar at us.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said the man, with a chuckle, “but then, why worry about tomorrow? When you are my age you’ll know there may be no tomorrow!”
“No tomorrow?” Jeanne tried to think what that might be like and failed.
“Tell me,” she exclaimed, as if to break the spell, “This is a land of primeval forests. It should be one of ghosts, fairies, elves, just any little people. Are there no legends about it?”
“Yes, one,” said the old man.
“Tell me,” said Jeanne.
“Have you seen Monument Rock?” the old man asked.
“No.”
“You must.”
“Good. I shall,” said Jeanne.
“The legend is about Monument Rock,” said the old man. “It is just over yonder. If it were daytime I might point it out to you—the rock, I mean.
“You see,” he settled back in his place, “before the white man came, no one lived on the island, that is, hardly anyone.
“Indians came in their great canoes to hunt and to crack away rocks and gather great copper nuggets which they beat into spear points and arrowheads. But when the dark whispering trees cast their shadows on the bay they seemed to hear voices saying: ‘This is no fit place for man to live. This is the home of all island gods.’ And always they hurried to their canoes and went paddling away. That is,” his voice seemed to trail off, “almost always.” From somewhere far away a faint echo murmured “Almost always.”
For a time they sat there, the aged man and the blonde-haired girl, lost in meditation, contemplating the beauty of the night.
“Ah,” the old man breathed at last. “It is magnificent, all this. God made it glorious and man has done little to mar it.
“Once,” his voice grew mellow, “a few years back, when there were more people here and there were joyous young people with us, we held a night party on the little island, just over there.
“Those young people sang beneath the stars.” His voice was low—“They sang as no one had sung before, sang to life, beauty and joy, to God, who is all these.
“And then,” he heaved a deep sigh, “we made a great bonfire. The wood was dry. There was not a breath of air. The flames rose straight up—up—up—till they reached the stars. We were in touch with Heaven.”
“And then?” Jeanne breathed.
“As the flames touched the stars, someone in a boat coming down the bay started music. What kind? I do not recall. Someone was playing Kreisler’s ‘Old Refrain.’ Ah,” he breathed, “it was the final touch.
“Late that night,” his voice dropped, “I threw myself on my cot and said, ‘Why should I live longer? This is life’s great moment!’
“And yet,” his voice rose again, “there is more of life—much more. And the way leads up, always upward toward the stars.
“It is late. I must be going.” Springing to his feet, the old man vanished into the night.
“What a strangely glorious old man!” Jeanne mused, as Dave came up. “And, oh!” she cried, “he was going to tell me the legend of Monument Rock!”
“He is Doctor Emery,” said Dave. “They call him ‘Dean of the Island.’ Perhaps he will tell you that story tomorrow.”
“Perhaps,” Jeanne answered.
“And yet,” she thought to herself, “it could not be half so charming as it would have been, told here beneath the stars!”
As Jeanne crept softly to her berth in Florence’s stateroom, Plumdum gave a low “yip—yip.” He was silenced at once, but Florence, wakened from her dreams, did not fall asleep for some time.
As she listened to the sounds of the night, the low tweet-tweet of the night bird, the swish-swish of a moose swimming the bay and the distant howl of a bush wolf, her mind was crowded with thoughts that for the moment seemed not connected at all.
There were the gray-haired old man and his granddaughter whom they had rescued from Greenstone Ridge. Who was he? And would they meet again? There was the big man whose speedboat had failed. Would he try again? Would their license be renewed, or would this man put an end to their work as passenger carriers? And the fires? Were they under control? Dared she hope this? She dared not hope. Why had the voice in the night said these fires had been set?
“Why would they?” she whispered. “How could they?”
Suddenly, as if in answer to her whisper, a voice broke the silence of the night. “Ya. Dese fires dey iss bein’ set. Dey iss—no doubt about dat. But who is setting dem? Dat’s de question.”
“The same voice,” Florence almost said aloud. Springing from her berth barefooted, in pajamas, she dashed out onto the deck to send the gleam of her flashlight far and wide.
“There is no one on the water,” she whispered. Shuddering, she crept back beneath the blankets.
A moment later she heard footsteps on deck. At first she thought it must be the mysterious man. As she listened, however, she recognized Dave’s substantial tread.
“Florence,” he spoke through the latticed window, “we’ve been going it rather strong of late. Guess we’ll take a half-day off. If you and Jeanne have anything to do, you might go at it in the morning. We won’t leave here before noon.”
“Good!” she exclaimed, “we’ll go on some sort of a hike. I’m aching for a chance to stretch my legs. They get all cramped up here on deck.”
Early next day, Florence and Jeanne rowed across the bay to a small dock marked, “Monument Rock Trail.”
After tying up their boat they took up the trail that, now winding beneath sweet smelling cedar and balsam, and now passing over a swamp spanned by shaky logs, at last brought them to the foot of a ridge. Here they started climbing toward the crest.
Some half-way up they made an abrupt turn, to find themselves facing a mass of towering rock that, like the tall chimney of some burned building, rose to the very tree tops.
“Monument Rock,” Jeanne whispered. Something of that spell cast over her by the “Dean of the Island” recurred now. “It’s like a headless man, that rock,” she said in awed voice. “A man with hands folded across his knees.”
“That’s just like the legend!” Florence exclaimed.
“Oh, do you know it?” Jeanne was pleased.
“It goes like this,” Florence began. “In the early days Indians seldom came to live here. It was, they said, the home of all island gods. If men came here to live they would meet with disaster.”
“Did any of them ever try it?” Jeanne asked.
“Yes,” Florence smiled and nodded. “This one! ‘Sitting Cloud’ they called him. He’s still sitting, you see.”
“Sitting Cloud,” Jeanne said in a small voice.
“Yes. You see, like lots of other people, he didn’t believe in gods, so he came here to live. The hunting was good. There were caribou, lynx and beaver in those days. He traded lumps of copper to others of his tribe and got on very well indeed.”
“And then?” Jeanne breathed.
“Then he began to believe in the gods. Sometimes, in a night of fog, he thought he saw them creeping upon him. So he took to hiding in a small cave that opened out right at this place.”
“And then?” Jeanne repeated.
“Then he hunted very little. He did not crack away rock to get copper. Indians who came to visit the island found him shuddering in his cave. You see, Jeanne,” Florence said soberly, “that’s what comes of believing in island gods, fairies, gnomes, and all such.”
“Or, in not believing.” Jeanne was quite serious. “Perhaps the island wasnotmeant to be lived upon,” she went on. “Perhaps it will all be burned over. Then no one can live here.”
“Oh, but no!” She sprang to her feet. “It is so beautiful! It is always so cool! The air is so delightful! It must not be destroyed! It truly must not be!
“But this Indian, Sitting Cloud?” Her voice changed. “What happened?”
Florence looked toward the great rock towering to the sky. “Just what you see. Sitting Cloud was a giant. Perhaps he had grown since coming to the island. Anyway, so the story goes, one spring his friends came to look for him and all they found was this rock. Even his cave was gone. The gods had turned him to stone.”
“The gods had turned him to stone.” Jeanne whispered.
“Perhaps,” said Florence.
“I am sure it was so!” Jeanne declared. “But come!” She seized Florence by the hand. “Let us go to the very top.”
Once again they took the upward trail. They came at last to the crest of the ridge. There, standing on a platform of rock known as “Lookout Louise,” they stood in silence, while their eyes took in the glorious view.
It was a clear day. At their feet lay Duncan’s Bay. On the little camping spot at its entrance, more than once in the days that had gone they had pitched their tent.
“Happy days,” Jeanne whispered.
If Florence heard, she made no reply. She was looking away toward the Canadian shores where Sleeping Giant, Pie Island, and Thunder Bay seemed to call to her.
At that Jeanne broke in with three magic words: “The Phantom Fisherman.”
“Oh, no!” Florence exclaimed. “You only see him in a fog.” The fact is, the big girl scarcely believed in this phantom at all.
“See for yourself!” Seizing her arm, Jeanne pointed away over the shimmering water to a spot well beyond the last jagged end of the island.
“There!” she exclaimed, “there he is!”
“Sure enough. Let’s have a look.” Florence dragged a pair of heavy field glasses to her eyes.
“Seems real enough,” she murmured. “White boat with a red gunwale, sort of short and chubby. I’d know that boat anywhere. What a powerful motor he must have! How he does dart about!”
“If we were there he would vanish,” Jeanne insisted.
“Jeanne, you’re a dreamer.” Florence let the glasses drop to her side. “But then, what is one to expect from a gypsy, you—”
At that instant a cry escaped her lips. “Look! Only look, Jeanne!” She had turned half-about. “Smoke everywhere! The whole island is on fire!”
This seemed indeed true. To judge distances was difficult but it looked as though the nearest fire must not be more than ten miles away. Beyond that the whole island was hidden by smoke.
Even as Jeanne looked, Florence exclaimed again, “Look!”
Once again, dragging the heavy fieldglasses to her eyes, she studied a mass of rocks that at some distance rose above the treetops.
“A man,” she murmured, “A man in a bright red sweater. Must be five miles away, where no one lives.”
The man had been leaping from rock to rock. Now he paused to turn and look away. Did Florence see a fresh column of smoke rise from the evergreen forest? She thought so. She could not be sure.
“He’s young,” she thought. “Perhaps only a boy. Not even a middle-aged person could go over the rocks like that. Can he be a firebug? Are these fires being set by him?”
To these questions there could be no answer for the present. One thing was certain. If she saw him again close by and he wore that sweater, she would know him, for surely there was but one such flash of red on the island.
Two hours later the girls were having lunch with Edith Mateland, the wife of one of the fishermen. She was a small person, and Florence thought rather frail for such a life.
“Edith,” Florence said, “do people ever set forest fires?”
“Oh, yes. Many times!” was the startling reply.
“But why?”
“Perhaps they do not like the people who own the timber.”
“Revenge?”
“Yes. And perhaps they just want work.”
“Work?” Florence stared.
“Oh, yes,” Edith explained. “These days there are many who have no work. If there is a very terrible fire men will be hired to fight it. Thousands of men.”
“Oh! but these wouldn’t do that!”
“It has been done many times.” There was a ring of truth in Edith’s voice. She was of the North. She knew.
Florence thought of the hundreds of men being brought to the island to fight this fire. One thing was certain. If there was a firebug on this island he must be caught. She would ask questions of people here and there about the mysterious youth in the crimson sweater. She would search far and wide for him. If he seemed to avoid her she would hunt him down. He should not escape. So, fired by a new resolution, she rowed back to theWanderer.
She had barely reached theWandererwhen a messenger, having raced over the two-mile trail from Rock Harbor Lodge, appeared on the shore. Quite out of breath, and greatly excited, he shouted across the narrow stretch of water,
“Hey, there! Chippewa Harbor is burning!”
“What?” Florence was startled. “How do you know?”
“Got a short wave message from Ve and Vi, whoever they are.”
“Ve and Vi,” Florence said, “they are the fisherman’s daughters. They have a short wave outfit for winter use. I shouldn’t wonder,” she hesitated. Then she shouted across to the messenger, “Who’s there?”
“At Chippewa? Only the fishermen and a troop of boys.”
“Boys? What boys?”
“Troop No. 18.”
“Eight-eighteen?” The big girl’s hopes fell. She knew those boys. City bred, they knew nothing of fire fighting. Two boys, Mike and Tony—the worst of the lot—she suspected, were their leaders. What was to be expected from them?
“Go back and get a message to them. Tell them we’re coming!” she called.
“But what’s the good?” Dave demurred, as Ruth ordered the deck cleared for action. “If the place is burning what can be done?”
“You know as well as I,” Florence replied rather sharply, “that reports on this island are always exaggerated. The least we can do is to go over there and take the folks off. Think of losing everything,” she said in a sober tone, “Home, furnishings, everything—the work of a lifetime.”
Soon they were skirting the rocky shores, headed for Chippewa, sixteen miles away. Sitting on the deck, Florence closed her eyes, and tried to picture in her mind the snug little harbor with its tiny huts, its toy-like log cabin store and its little group of fishing folk. Had she seen it all for the last time? It would seem so, for as her eyes opened she saw a long column of yellow smoke trailing out over the lake. As they rounded a point some two miles from the harbor, her anxiety increased. So dense was the smoke that it did not seem that one building could be left standing.
Imagine her surprise and joy when upon rounding the final jutting of rock she beheld Chippewa Harbor just as she had seen it last!
“Doomed, for all that,” Dave said soberly. “Look at that line of fire not a half-mile off and coming this way!
“For once,” he spoke slowly, “theWandereris going to run.”
“Oh! No! Not yet!” Florence remonstrated.
“Not yet, but soon,” was the reply. “When we touch the dock you tell those folks to get everything that’s portable on the deck of this boat without delay.”
“But will they do it?” All too well the girl knew the stubborn determination of these Scandinavian people.
To her surprise she found the fisher-folk ready to comply. They had seen enough, were ready to admit themselves beaten. Even the troop of city boys, who knew nothing of fire fighting, joined in the rescue work. In no time at all the cottages, fishhouse and store were stripped.
“What about these?” a boy asked, pointing to several large boxes.
“Government property,” Florence decided. “They stay.”
“When do we go aboard?” Mike, leader of the boys’ troop, asked.
“You don’t go!” Florence gave him a strange smile. “You, too, are government property. Oh, you won’t burn,” she added, as she saw the sullen look on the boy’s face deepen. “All you have to do is run over the ridge, climb down fifty feet, and find a good place to rest. The fire will never touch you. Besides—” She did not finish.
“All right. Swing off. I’m staying.” There was a bluntness about her tone, as for the first time she gave Dave an order.
“But why? You can’t—” Dave did not finish. She shot him a look. He had seen that look on her face before.
“Cast off the line,” he said. Shuffling to the post, the boy called Tony lifted the line and gave it a fling.
“Well?” Tony growled, giving Florence a hard look. “So you’re stayin’?”
Florence did not answer, for at that moment robust Katie appeared at the ship’s rail. One look at Florence and, boy-like, she vaulted the rail, sailed over three feet of water, and landed with a thud on the dock.
In sudden consternation, Florence saw that Jeanne, too, was preparing to try the leap to shore. By this time the distance was too great. She would fall into the water and might be injured by the boat’s propeller.
“No! Jeanne!” she screamed, “Don’t jump. Stay on the boat. They may need you.”
Laughingly Jeanne held up her hands in sign of surrender then disappeared down the hatchway.
“So you’re stayin’, too?” said the boy called Mike turning to Katie.
“You bet I’m stayin’,” said Katie. “Maybe we can lick that fire even if a whole army can’t.”
“Aw, now don’t you get excited,” said Mike, with a leering grin. “It takes men to fight a fire.”
“What’s in those boxes?” Florence demanded, ignoring their banter.
“We don’t know exactly,” said Tony. “Mebby they might be pumps.”
“Pumps?” The girl’s eyes widened. “Why don’t you open them up and see?”
“Captain’s gone,” said Mike. “Left yesterday. We can’t—”
“You can’t do a thing until he comes back!” There was biting sarcasm in Florence’s voice. “Not if the whole island burned!”
“That’s what we want,” Tony jeered. “Exactly it. When it’s all burned we can go back to the mainland.
“Lookit,” he waxed fairly eloquent, “What sort a place is this? Y’ can’t crank up the flivver on Saturday night and go to town ’cause there ain’t no flivver. An’ y’ can’t go see the girls and get a glass a beer ’cause there ain’t no gals and there ain’t no beer.”
“Too bad!” said Florence, reaching for an ax that was leaning against the dock house, and giving one of the six boxes a sharp crack.
“Y’ can’t do that!” Tony exclaimed. “Government property.”
“Can’t I?” She swung her ax again, knocking off a board. Crack—crack—crack. The box broke away, revealing a neat contraption.
“Itisa pump!” The girl’s eyes shone. “Any of you know how to run it?”
No answer. Her eyes wandered to the nearby ridge. A giant spruce, ignited from below, blazed clear to the sky in one terrifying whash. Seizing the remains of the box, she cast them into the bay.
“Looks like an outboard motor,” she murmured. “Shouldn’t wonder if it was made like one.”
“Yes! A rope to start it!” exclaimed Katie, grabbing a short rope with a wooden handle attached. “I’ll try it!”
“You’ll get the devil for that!” Mike threatened. “Can’t fool with government property.”
“You can’t and you don’t want to!” Florence flared up. She was uncoiling a forty-foot hose. “You’d rather let the island burn. It might be a playground for thousands. Tired people could rest here.”
“Yeah, rest!” Mike sneered, “Who’d want to rest? Go places! See things! That’s me!”
“You’ve eaten Mrs. Carlson’s doughnuts and slept in her cabins when it was raining, and now,” Florence threw him a look of scorn.
“You’re too fresh!” With a threatening gesture Tony moved closer along the edge of the rock.
To all this Katie gave no heed. She had discovered a small tank on the pump. This she had filled with gasoline. Now she was fitting the knot of the short rope into its place. If this pump worked like an outboard motor she could start it. And then—
Florence was thinking all this when with a start, her mind was brought back to Mike.
“Think y’re smart, don’t yer?” There was a dangerous glint in his eye. He took a step toward her—another, and another. “Think I’m a guttersnipe, don’t y’—a tough city guy? Well, that’s what I am. I—I’ll show y’.” He took one more step.
“No!” Florence tried in vain to steady her wildly beating-heart. “No! That’s not what I think at all. I don’t care where you came from nor what you’ve been. I only know what you are now. What you’re doing. Lying down on your job—leading all these boys the wrong way. You’re ungrateful—you—”
“Think yer smart,” Mike stepped closer.
“Don’t do that, Miss,” a wavering voice came from the line. It was the smallest, most timid boy of the lot who spoke. And yet—he had courage.
Swallowing hard, the girl tried to speak. Words would not come. Mike’s fists were clenched hard as he moved one step nearer. He was closely followed by Tony.
“Don’t let him, Miss,” came in that same wavering voice.
And then the thing happened. Three times, all unknown to Florence, the powerful Katie had pulled the rope that turned the wheel of the strange pump that looked like an outboard motor. All that time Florence had held the hose in her hand. Once again Katie gave the rope a vicious jerk. And then! Was it like an outboard motor? Like ten outboard motors all in one the thing thundered—the hose in Florence’s hand writhed and twisted like a snake. It swung half around her neck, tripped a boy passing down the line, stiffened like a bent and twisted gas pipe, then shot forth a stream that would have gone forty feet if it had not encountered an obstacle. That obstacle was Mike’s broad chest!
Thrown off his balance by that irresistible force, with the swiftness of light, Mike spun half-way round, rose in air, then went plunging into space. When space rejected him, the glad, cold waters of the harbor opened their arms to receive him!
Startled, thrown into sudden consternation by this turn of events, Florence, without intending it at all, swung the hose about and the stream sent Tony plunging after his pal.
Then, like some creature that has done its work swiftly and well, the pump coughed twice, and lapsed into silence. Above this silence there rose a low laugh. It ran all down the line of boys and all the way back again.
Taking advantage of the situation, Florence exclaimed, “Boys, we have pumps. You all have homes. If they were in danger, you’d save them if you could. You’ve got to help save this home now! Get those boxes open. Quick. Fill the tanks. Turn ’em over. If half the pumps work, we’ll win!”
Catching the spirit of the moment thirty boys leaped into action. In the shortest imaginable time five pumps were coughing and sneezing like five bull moose come up for air.
“This,” Florence thought, with a sudden touch of despair, “is all right. But how shall we reach the fire?” Her eyes fell upon a dozen gasoline barrels piled neatly by the dock house.
“Quick!” she exclaimed. “Cut two holes in the top of each barrel. Then roll four up the ridge, each about forty feet from the next one.”
Though they did not understand why, the boys followed her directions. When this was done, she said, “Now! Two of you to a pump. Take them up to the barrels!”
“Bu-but, Miss, we don’t understand,” said the small, timid boy.
“There’s little time for explaining,” Florence snapped. “But this is the idea, each pump will throw water thirty or forty feet.”
“Yea, yea,” they agreed, “but it’s a hundred and fifty to the top of that first ridge.”
“That’s just it,” the girl explained. “The first pump will force the water up to the first barrel. Then we will put the short hose of the second pump in that barrel and draw the water out. That second pump will carry the water another thirty feet to the second barrel.”
“And so on and on to the top,” someone exclaimed. “It’s a grand idea. Think of a girl workin’ that out all by herself! Come on. Let’s get goin’.” And they did.
It was with a feeling of deep satisfaction that Florence saw this first task well begun. This first ridge, with its sparse growth of fir and balsam, could be well soaked down before the fire arrived. The battle was not won, but a good beginning had been made and Florence, as she studied the youthful faces about her, knew that her little army would stick to the last.
“There are chickens on board,” she said so they could all hear. “Twelve large, fat chickens in the boat’s refrigerator. They were meant for a Lodge. We’ll roast them all over the coals of this fire when the battle is won.” A low, hoarse cheer greeted these remarks. Then, at a word, five sturdy young pumps, each with the power of ten outboard motors, began passing water from barrel to barrel until it shot forth in a broad stream.
Fired with new hope, boys not needed at the pumps seized axes and began slashing at the taller trees and dragging them away. When at last the fire, fanned by a fresh breeze, came sweeping down the highest ridge into the narrow run, then started climbing the “last desperate hope,” that lower ridge, a thin line of grim-faced, determined boys met it half-way. Such was the influence of one girl who refused to give up!
With all the pumps manned by the lightweight boys, the powerful Katie and Florence seized axes and rushed down to add their bit. It was then that a flaming spruce tree, toppling to a fall, pinned a smoke-blackened boy beneath its branches.
“Katie! Quick!” Florence screamed. “He’ll be burned to death!”
With power born of desperation, the girls wrenched away flaming branches, then dragged the boy clear. His shirt was on fire. Florence tore the garment from him and stamped it into the damp moss. Then half dragging, half carrying the injured lad, she removed him to safety.
It was only after the danger was over that she recognized the youth she had saved. She truly did receive a shock!
“Mike! It’s you!” she exclaimed.
“Who’d y’ think it was goin’ to be?” growled Mike.
“But Mike! You helping to fight the fire?”
“I wasn’t helpin’,” Mike lied. “I was just dryin’ out me clothes.”
“Yes?” Florence turned over his right hand. It was still red from the work it had done. There were two fresh blisters there. “Yes,” she said, speaking with difficulty, “you—you were drying your clothes!”
For a moment there was silence, save for the roar and crackle of the fire blazing away where it could do no harm. As the girl watched the flames dart high, only to fall back against water-soaked trees, she knew she was safe in snatching a few moments of rest. The victory was won. The little fishery, the tiny cabins, the humble home of her friends—all were safe. The fire would creep along the ridge until it came to barren rocks and the waters of Superior. There it would flash and sputter its life away. There might be other fires on the island. There were. She caught the light of them in the distance. But Chippewa Harbor was safe!
“It wasn’t fer you that I done it!” Mike protested.
“Then why?” she demanded.
“Think yer smart, don’t y’?” was Mike’s only reply.
The truth was, Florence had unlocked the only door to Mike’s heart. With the aid of that sputtering pump, she had licked him good and plenty. And the law of physical force was the only law Mike knew anything about.
“Mike,” said Florence after a time, “what do you know about these fires being set?”
“Not a thing,” said Mike. “Say! You don’t think—”
“No! No!” She stopped him. “I don’t think anything like that. But I must find out, right away. Here, shake on it.” Her good, stout, capable hand gripped Mike’s blisters, but Mike never flinched.
True to their promise, when theWandererreturned, Florence and Katie prepared a grand feast of roast chicken, hot biscuits and coffee for the weary young fire-fighters. None enjoyed this more than did Mike and Tony.
“When the next war comes,” Tony laughed, “you join up as Captain and we’ll be your privates!” Coming from Tony this was high praise.
“One thing sure,” Dave said, after the feast was over, “if you ever again need help from those boys you’ll get it without a murmur.”
“Chickens come high!” was Florence’s strange reply. “But I guess it’s worth it.”