There came a time when it seemed she could no longer breathe. A peculiar brown smoke appeared to rise from the very ground. This, she discovered to her despair, was exactly what it was doing. At this point the ground was on fire. Isle Royale, in the beginning, was a barren rock. All its soil is of vegetable origin. Here in the narrow valley a form of peat lay some three feet thick. Dry as tinder it had ignited. To attempt to pass over it would be to find oneself floundering in masses of burning peat. This was unthinkable. Once again the way was blocked.
Wearily she turned back to retrace her steps to higher ground and clearer air. Scarcely had she reached her starting point when, to her great surprise, she heard her name called. A great wave of joy swept over her as she answered, “Here! Here I am!”
Call answered call until at last Mike and Tony burst into view.
“Oh! It—it’s you,” she faltered.
“Sure it’s us,” Mike agreed. “Who’d you t’ink? We may be tough, miss, but we know real coin when we see it. You come from right down our alley. Come on, we’ll git y’ out a’ here.”
“Not so fast,” a voice might have whispered. The boys had been too intent on getting over the trail to note that a wall of fire was at that very moment fast closing the trail. They had retraced their steps only a matter of two hundred yards when they found themselves face to face with that wall of fire.
“All right fer you,” Mike shouted defiance at the flames. “We’ll find a way out. Never doubt that!”
It was not long before even Mike did doubt this. Florence had warned him of danger in two directions. All others seemed blocked.
This was the state of affairs when Jeanne and the captain flew over them for the first time. At sight of the plane Florence took courage. She was sure they would try to help. But how? They could not land. There was no lake in the fire-encircled area. What could they do? She was to know.
In the meantime, on a very high point of Greenstone Ridge, perhaps a mile away, there stood a solitary figure. He wore a crimson sweater and carried a high-powered glass at his side. Three times he lifted the glass to study the spot where Florence and the two boys stood. At last he turned and took three steps in their direction. Then he stopped. A sound had reached his ears, the drum of an airplane motor.
He did not go on, but, as the airplane circled toward him, dropped from sight behind some low-growing fir trees. Who was he? Why was he here? Did he know a safe way back to the spot where Florence and the boys stood? Who could answer these questions?
Florence and her companions, too, heard that motor. It was the plane’s second trip. Their hopes rose. They might receive aid. But how?
Twice, as they stood watching, the plane circled. Then a spot of white appeared at the side of the plane. In the rear seat a slim figure stood erect. It was Jeanne. She was saying, “Poor Plumdum.”
The spot of white detached itself from the plane. The girl sat down.
“A parachute!” Florence murmured hoarsely.
“It ain’t big enough,” said Mike.
“There’s something dark—” Florence did not finish.
“Oh—ah! Gone into a cloud of smoke,” Tony groaned.
“It—it’s a message or something. I—I’ll get it. I’ve got the direction. You stay right here,” Florence was away.
Dashing through brush, over fallen trees and around giant boulders she had covered half the distance when to her vast astonishment she began hearing strange sounds.
“What can it be?” she asked herself. She stopped dead in her tracks.
What indeed? Now it was like the ki-yi of a badly frightened dog and now like the roar of a mad bull.
As she stood there the sounds grew louder until the whole air seemed filled with them. Then, to her utter consternation she saw poor little Plumdum racing toward her. And after him, tongue lolling, massive antlers tossing, came a giant bull moose.
For ten seconds, her whole body paralyzed with fear, she stood there motionless. Then her alert mind began to work. Full well she knew the hatred every moose bears for every creature of the dog and wolf family.
To stand there and gather the small dog in her arms would have been a gallant but fatal gesture. She would have been torn in pieces.
She did not pause but fled down the way she had come. Realizing that the moose was much faster than herself, she began dodging to the right here and the left there. The moose, she knew, had poor eyesight. She was putting low-growing spruce trees between herself and her pursuer. This gave her added time. Twice the moose, coming head on into the sturdy limbs of a tree, was obliged to back away before continuing the chase.
Plumdum had dodged off into the brush. Mike and Tony, hearing the roar of the moose had climbed trees. It was Florence and the moose for it. Or was it?
She had gained considerable distance, had raced past the spot she had left without seeing the boys in the trees and was hoping to elude her pursuer when catastrophy befell her. Her boot caught in a vine and sent her sprawling. Worst of all, she fell on a half rotten stump which knocked the breath out of her. In agony she tried to rise. It was impossible.
Tony was slim, agile as a cat, a typical Italian. His dark eyes had taken it all in. His trigger-like mind had formed a plan. The moose would pass beneath his tree. And then—
Something hit the moose squarely in the back. Something seized his antlers in a grip of steel. Thrown into sudden panic, he forgot Florence to go bolting down the slope toward the swamp where the ground was on fire.
Neither Mike nor Florence saw this last bit of wildwoods drama. They were astonished when Tony did not at once answer their call. But here was Plumdum whimpering at their feet. And there, safely tied to his collar was a precious message.
The small hydroplane was back at the dock. The captain had said, “We have done what we could. We can only hope for the best.” A picture of woe, Jeanne sat on the narrow dock. In an effort to save a good pal she had sacrificed her beloved Plumdum. She did not regret the sacrifice if only it saved her friend. But would it?
At times she felt an all but overpowering desire to dash away over the trail in the vain hope of passing the fiery barrier. Twice she rose to carry out the mad plan. Twice she resumed her seat on the dock.
When she rose for the third time the captain said, “Come on. Hop in. We’ll fly over and see what’s happened.”
They did fly. And they did see. Jeanne had marked the spot where Florence had stood. It was between three great rocks. Already the fire had come that far. Three times they circled. No trace of their lost comrades did they find. What had happened? Would they ever know? Jeanne sank back into her seat.
She did not remain so for long. Of a sudden she sat up to clutch the pilot and to scream in his ear, “Captain Frey please circle back over that bare knob of rock.”
“Right.” The captain turned the wheel.
A crimson spot on that bare flat rock had caught Jeanne’s attention. This, she reasoned must be the boy in the crimson sweater. He it had been that had lured her good friend Florence into the fire trap. Well, he should pay for that. He should have a warning this very moment. Deftly forming a bit of string and her handkerchief into a tiny parachute, she attached a bit of greenstone rock to it, then clutched it between her knees while she scribbled a note. This note read:
“You are suspected of setting these fires. If you are guilty you shall be caught. We are on your trail.Gypsies never forget.”
“You are suspected of setting these fires. If you are guilty you shall be caught. We are on your trail.Gypsies never forget.”
Binding this note to the greenstone rock she waited. The plane soared lower and lower. They would pass over the rock at a hundred feet. Accustomed to judge the speed of planes, she leaned far over and waited. Then, as she found herself all but looking into the eyes of the mysterious youth, she allowed the tiny parachute to go drifting away.
Watching, she saw the white spot dropping lower and lower. “Good! He sees it!” she exclaimed, “He can’t miss it.” Then she whispered low, “The gypsies’ first warning.”
It was with trembling fingers that Florence unbound the pocket on Plumdum’s collar. Together she and Mike studied the crude map which Captain Frey had drawn.
“Let’s see,” the girl murmured. “That gap between fires must be in that direction.” She pointed toward a low ridge.
“No,” Mike corrected. “This way more.” He was looking at his compass. “We better scram. Dat note says no time to lose.”
“But, Tony? What about him?” the girl protested.
“Oh, Tony,” the boy’s brow wrinkled. Well enough Florence knew the bond of undying friendship between these two boys.
“Oh, Tony.” There was a forced note of cheerfulness in Mike’s voice. “Tony’s a Dago. He’s made out of tin cans, old asbestos an’ other scrap. He wouldn’t burn.” The laugh that followed was far from real.
Florence was touched. She swallowed a tear, swayed a little, then said simply,
“Al-all right, let’s go.” And what else was there to do?
“We’ll let out a yell now and then,” said Mike.
Gathering Plumdum into her ample arms, Florence led the way.
Their way ran across the dried-up bog. The ground was soft. For some distance their footprints remained plainly marked. At last these prints were lost on the rocky slopes beyond.
Now and again Mike paused to shout, “Yo-ho!”
Only the ridge echoed back faintly, “Yo-ho!” and yet more faintly, “Yo-ho!” Mike’s feet seemed to drag but he kept doggedly on.
“If I stay behind,” he was thinking, “she’ll stay too. An’ that won’t do. She’s worth the two of us.”
They came at last to a spot where, near the crest of the ridge, they were between two fires. The heat here was intense, almost scorching. Plumdum whined piteously.
“Come on,” Florence urged. “It’s our only chance.”
“I—I can’t,” Mike moaned. “It’s me pal, Tony. I—I gotta go back.”
“You can’t,” Florence hissed, seizing his arm. “Not now. You’re going on if I have to drag you.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll come,” Mike replied miserably.
Fifteen minutes later they were past all danger. On the crest of a higher ridge, where there were no trees, only rock, and where a cool breeze fanned their parched cheeks, they watched the fire roaring on beneath them.
“Ton-Tony!” A veritable roar of anguish escaped Mike’s lips.
To their unbounded astonishment there came an answer, “Here! Here I am! What you t’ink?”
“I knew it!” Mike broke into a roar of laughter. “It’s Tony. My Tony. Didn’t I tell you? You can’t burn up a Dago like him!”
Unashamed the two boys embraced each other. A moment later, with Plumdum yip-yipping his delight at their heels, the three of them danced a jig atop a great, flat rock.
Once more Mike went into the lead by declaring, “We’d better scram.”
And scram they did. Following the ridge until they were well beyond the fire line, they came at last upon an ancient trail leading down. Turning they went racing down this trail at a speed that must have spelled disaster to a less hardy trio.
Fifteen minutes later they burst out upon the shores of silent waters.
“Good old Rock Harbor,” Florence breathed, almost as a prayer of thanksgiving.
On the dock at the head of that same harbor a half hour later Jeanne sat in the depths of despair. Florence was gone. Plumdum was gone. What could she do?
Of a sudden, from the distance she caught a familiar sound, the shrill barking of a small dog.
“Plumdum!” she exclaimed springing to her feet. “It must be. There is no other such dog on the island.”
It was a wild looking Jeanne who burst through the brush to greet her lost friends a short time later. Her dress was torn, her hair was flying wild, but her eyes shone with a glorious light.
“Plumdum! Florence!” she screamed, gathering the dog in her arms and being in turn gathered in by Florence.
It was only over a rich “Mulligan” stew prepared by Captain Frey’s cook that Tony’s story was told.
“I saw you go down,” he said to Florence. “An’ heard yer breath go out. I thought, ‘That moose will get her fer sure.’”
“And so he would have,” Captain Frey agreed. “A moose has hoofs that are like steel chisels.”
“So-o,” Tony breathed, continuing his story, “I dropped on his back. Swell luck. I grabbed his antlers. Then I ducked down to miss the branches. And say-ee!” he breathed. “Talk about speed! He was worse’n an airplane.
“And then—” he paused.
“Then what, ye dummie?” Mike demanded.
“It ain’t nice. I hate t’ tell ye.” Tony took in a long breath.
“Did he go toward the dry swamp?” Florence asked. Tony nodded.
“Then I know,” the girl said with a shudder, “the moose went into the peat bog that’s on fire.”
“An’ stuck there fer a minute.” Tony agreed. “I swing off on a low limb of a tree. Then I scram. Of course, I don’t know but I kin guess what come of Mr. Moose.” He heaved a heavy sigh.
“But, Tony,” Florence said after a moment, “how did you know which way the gap in the fire wall was?”
“Found yer tracks crossin’ t’ dry swamp,” said Tony with a grin. “‘They’re goin’ straight,’ I says to meself. ‘That means they know which way t’ go.’ And you did.”
“And I’m glad,” Florence put in warmly.
“That was great!” Captain Frey exclaimed.
“Wind has changed,” the captain announced a short time later. “That means Rock Harbor shores don’t burn, not just yet. We may get a little rain tonight.
“You better stay with us,” he added, turning to the girls. “We’ll run you down to the lodge first thing in the morning. There’s a snug cabin which Mrs. Frey occupies when she is here. You will have it all to yourselves.”
So it was agreed. And Florence was not sorry. Surely she had seen quite enough of life for one day. Sleep would be sweet after such wild adventure.
“What of the boy in the crimson sweater?” she asked herself dreamily as she drifted off to sleep. Then, “I’ll get him yet.”
“Jeanne,” said Florence, “do you remember that man over at Rock Harbor lodge who was always talking about fishing?”
“Yes. Why?”
“He’s got me all excited. Let’s celebrate our wonderful luck getting that Government contract by going fishing.”
“I—” Jeanne murmured, “I only wish to sit on the rocks and dream the hours away.”
It was the next day. Several hours were at their disposal. They were anchored at Tobin’s Harbor. TheIroquoiswas due at sunset with a boat-load of supplies for fire-fighters. TheWandererwas to help distribute these, so for the time they were standing by.
“You would desert me?” said Florence with a laugh. “Katie will go. Won’t you, Katie?”
“Fishing?” Katie’s eyes shone. “Absolutely.”
A half hour later the two girls were on their way to the fishing grounds. Florence was in her element. For her there was nothing quite like the “living water” of old Superior. In a rowboat you are so close to it. Each dark blue wave as it lifts you, then pushes you gently forward, seems reluctant to let you go.
“The water issoblue!” she exclaimed. “Must be the copper in these rocks that makes it.”
“Yes,” said Katie.
“Or the blue of the sky.”
“Yes,” Katie agreed once again.
Truth is, Katie had scarcely heard. She, too, was in her element. She was enjoying perfect physical activity, and that, to her, was life. L I F E, spelled with big round letters. With a rhythmic motion, keeping pace with the waves, her strong arms moved slowly back and forth while the oars flashed in the sun.
“Yes,” she repeated as if something more had been said.
“Wait! Stop!” Florence cried. Her line had been given a sudden pull.
“A fish,” said Katie.
“A big one!” Florence enthused, reeling in.
“Not so big,” said Katie.
Katie was right. It was not so big, perhaps three pounds. A fine fish for all that and Florence thrilled at landing it.
“And yet,” she thought, as they rounded a rocky point to cut across a gap to a small rocky island beyond, “there must be a fifteen pounder somewhere, just must be.”
“Yes,” said Katie as if reading her thoughts.
There was not for all that. No fifteen pounder rose to their lure around the far end of Edward’s Island. Six times they worked their way along the point, crossed it and circled back, but only one small fish brought them a moment’s thrill.
“Look!” Florence exclaimed as once more they headed out from the point. “There’s that lone fisherman, the mysterious one who is always there. Jeanne calls him the Phantom.”
“Yes,” said Katie. “He’s out at what the fishermen call Five Foot.”
“How far is it?” Florence’s voice was eager.
“One mile,” said Katie.
Lifting the field glasses to her eyes Florence studied the lone fisherman as he glided across the blue waters, then turned and glided back again. There was something about the waters on this day that seemed to lift him up above the surface.
“Looks as if he were floating through air.”
“Yes,” said Katie, showing all her fine teeth in a smile.
“There! He—he’s got one!” Florence exclaimed, quite forgetting her own line. “Must be a big one. How he pulls!”
The lone fisherman was standing up in his boat. He was pulling in a hand line, yards and yards of it. To Florence, who waited breathlessly, the line seemed endless. And yet, when the end did come it was with sudden shock, for the fish seemed immense.
“A whopper!” she exclaimed. “A regular whale. Katie, we’re going out there! We must!”
“Might be too far,” Katie suggested half-heartedly. She, too, was a born fisherman.
“He’s there,” Florence argued. “His boat is no larger than ours.”
“Motor boat.” Katie suggested. For all her protests she was not turning back. Instead she was heading straight out over the blue-black surface of Superior.
“A mile,” Florence thought with a sudden intake of breath, “a mile from anywhere.”
She thought of theWanderertied up there at the dock in Tobin’s Harbor, of Dave and all the rest. All that seemed dreamy and far away. What did it matter today?
Had she but known it, today had but begun and what a day it was to be!
It was with a feeling almost of guilt that she sat there watching the waves pass them one by one. With an all but silent swish, each seemed to whisper a warning.
“I won’t hear,” she told them defiantly. “Five Foot and big fish.”
Ah, yes, Five Foot. How often she had heard fishermen speak of it. There, a mile from anywhere, the rocks rose within five feet of the surface. That was why it was Five Foot. Beneath this giant submerged boulder, a full quarter mile long, scaly monsters lurked.
“We’ll get ’em,” she thought.
Was it conscience that whispered, “Yield not to temptation!” Florence did not believe in conscience, at least, not too much. So Katie rowed on and Florence, watching a bank of beautiful blue and black clouds roll along the horizon, thought, “What a grand old world this is.”
“Soon be at the spar,” Katie broke into her day-dreams.
“Reef begins there.”
“Al-all right,” Florence gripped her rod. “I—I’m ready.
“But look!” she exclaimed. “The Lone Fisherman is gone.”
“Gone?” Katie seemed startled.
“Oh, no!” her face broadened into a smile. “Over there.”
It was true. Out some distance further, perhaps a mile, the same small boat circled and bobbed, bobbed and circled again.
It was then that Florence began to believe in Jeanne’s strange notion, that this Lone Fisherman was no real fisherman at all and his boat no real boat, but that it was a phantom boat manned by a ghostly fisherman.
“More than one small craft has vanished,” she thought with a shudder. “The Flying Dutchman of Superior,” she whispered. She laughed at her own superstitious imagination, but the laugh was followed by a shudder. And at that moment the sun went under a cloud.
The instant the sun left them the whole world appeared to change. The water lay all about them black and threatening. Land seemed miles away. Florence shook herself. Then she glanced up at the sun. The cloud was but a small one. Already the sun was painting a golden rim along its lower edge.
“The rocks,” said Katie, “are down there.”
Looking down into the water at the side of the boat, Florence was startled. The water was crystal clear. The great masses of rocks were so real that they seemed dry land. “As if we were floating on air above it,” she told herself. It was strange.
“This is the place,” said Katie, as, a moment later, they passed across the far end of that submerged reef. “You go across fast.” Her stout arms sent the boat racing. “Then you drop your oars and let the lure sink down, down, down. If you don’t get a rock, you—”
She did not finish, for at that instant something all but dragged the pole from her companion’s hands.
“There!” Katie exclaimed, “You’ve got—”
But no! The line went slack.
“Oh!” Florence exclaimed. “What a—”
“There!” Katie exclaimed again as the pole all but bent double. “Hang on tight. You—”
Was there ever such a thrilling, appalling moment? Once again the line went slack.
But not for long. Ten seconds and the pull came again. “Now!” Katie exclaimed, half rising in her place, “Now you got him.”
That she had something big on her line, Florence could not doubt. That it was alive she was not long in finding out. She had reeled in twenty feet of line when, of a sudden, the reel handle was jerked from her fingers. Her knuckles were barked until they bled as she tried in vain to recover that handle. Only the strength of her line saved the day, the line and Katie, for the stout young Finn began backing the boat away.
“I—I’ve still got him,” Florence panted as she took a fresh grip on her reel.
Once more she began reeling in. Ten, twenty, thirty feet, the fish came grudgingly. Then, with a suddenness that was startling, the pull on the line redoubled.
“He’s turned on you. Hold—hold on hard!” Katie screamed.
This time Florence’s fingers did not slip. With grim determination she held on. This was a truly big one. She must have him. Was he the catch of the season? What joy if only he were. To work as she had worked, then to play for only a day, to bring in the prize fish!
“Ah!” she breathed as once more the strain lessened and she started reeling in.
Of a sudden the line went slack. “Gone!” she exclaimed in consternation.
“No! No! He may—be only—” Katie did not finish. Once again the reel sang. After a rush toward the boat the fish had darted to the right. Once again the girl’s reel was emptied and it was only Katie’s skill with the boat that saved the line.
“Sometimes,” said Florence with a mock-sober look on her face, “I wish we hadn’t hooked that fish.” Rubbing the blood from her knuckles, she began again.
For a time she met with greater success. Nearly all her line was in. The fish was directly beneath them when, with a sudden rush he shot upward. It was as if a spring-board were beneath him, for, as he hit the surface he rose clear of the water.
A blue-black streak of silver, he appeared to hang in air, then, like a depth-bomb shot downward.
“Wha-what a whopper,” Katie cried.
As for Florence, she was too busy saving her bruised knuckles even to think. One thing stood out in her mind, she would not give up. She must have that fish.
Sixty seconds later the fish once again came to the surface, this time forty feet away. He came to the top, head, tail and all. For a split second they were permitted to admire him, then he was down again.
Had Florence been a man, with the strong hard grip of a man in her fingers, the battle must have ended much sooner. As it was, time passed swiftly and as swiftly the big fish battled for freedom.
At last, just as the girl was giving up hope, the fish, with the perversity of his kind, came up beneath the boat, circled twice on a short line, then lay quite still on the surface. It was Katie who put the finishing touch to that bit of drama. Reaching out with her strong arms she gathered the fish, all wet and dripping, to her bosom and “loved him” into the boat. After that for a full minute the two girls sat staring first at each other, then at the fish. He was a forty-pounder, thirty-five at the least; twice as large as any fish caught that season.
Then, with the suddenness of a blow on the head, both girls awoke to the startling fact that during the battle their little world had vanished. Gone was the spot of green among the blue that is Passage Island, gone Blake’s Point and Edward’s Island. There was no land, only black threatening skies and blacker water. Clouds and fog had blotted out everything. Stealing up from behind Isle Royale, one of Superior’s sudden storms was racing down upon them. Katie courageously gripped her oars. But which way? Who could tell? In vain their eyes scoured the surface of the waters for the Lone Fisherman. He was not to be seen. Man or phantom, he had vanished.
“It’s a grand fish,” said Katie, striving in vain to keep the tremble out of her voice.
“Yes,” Florence thought, “it is a wonderful fish, but at what cost!”
It was a sober pair that faced the immediate future. Low-lying clouds had blotted out every trace of land. They were a mile from anywhere. Which way was land? How were they to know? Two hours before the wind had been off-shore. If they now headed into the wind, would they reach the island? Lake Superior winds change on a moment’s notice. If land did lie off there to windward, could they reach it? Every moment saw the gale increasing. White-caps were appearing.
Resolutely Katie headed into the wind and began rowing. There was, on the sturdy girl’s face at that moment, a look of such dogged determination as Florence had never seen there before.
“I got her into this,” she thought soberly. “It was wrong to come.”
And yet, had it been wrong? It was their day off. They had wanted a good time. They had had it, too. No one could deny that. Yet they had been—well, perhaps one might say rash, impulsive. Did impulse ever have any rightful place in one’s life? She wondered and could not answer. Surely life would be dull if everyone plodded straight on always doing the sure, safe thing. No vim nor sparkle to life. And yet—
Suddenly she realized that this was not a time for thought but for action. Extra oars lay in the bottom of the boat. Seizing these she set them in place, then waited until she had caught the rhythmic swing of Katie’s rowing. After that for a full quarter hour the creak of oars, the whistle of wind and the low swish of mounting waves were all that disturbed the silence of those black waters.
Suddenly Florence felt a hand on her shoulder. “Stop rowing,” said Katie.
“Why? What—”
Katie made no reply. Instead she turned the boat about to guide it by slow, easy strokes straight away from the storm.
“It’s no good.” Her voice sounded tired when at last she spoke. “All the time the wind it grows stronger. Perhaps land is this way. Who knows? We cannot go against the wind. With the wind we can go far, far! It is a good boat.”
There was a note almost of affection in the big girl’s voice. “It is a Thompson boat.”
Florence did not know what a Thompson boat was. She did know that their boat was deep, straight across the top and strong. She was thankful for all this. But which way were they heading? In some directions it was two hundred miles to land. And who could tell how this storm would end?
“Waves, mountain high,” she murmured. “Lake Superior at its worst.”
An hour later darkness lay like a black blanket over the waters of Superior. Every moment of that hour saw the gale increase and the waves mount higher, yet the strong arms of Katie never wavered. Heading straight away from the storm, she held their boat to a course.
Florence was obliged to admit that for once her steady nerves that had stood so much had now all but deserted her. What was the end to be? Would they drift on and on in the path of the storm until waves were strong enough to swamp their boat? As she listened she caught the low hiss of each wave and shuddered in spite of her courage.
Then, with a suddenness that was startling, a light that was fairly blinding flashed over their heads. Florence was thrown into consternation.
“Ka-Katie!” she cried. “What is it? Are we in the path of a steamer?” Through her mind there flashed a vision of some black bulk looming out of the night.
As for Katie, so overcome by emotion was she that for a space of seconds she could not speak. When at last she found her voice, she exclaimed joyously, “It is the Passage Island light. I forgot it. We are almost at the island. Listen—”
As they both listened there came the roar of waters beating on rocks.
“It—it’s terrible,” Florence said in a low, awed tone. “We couldn’t land there. Our boat would be smashed to splinters.”
“No, not there,” Katie agreed. “But on this side there is an entrance. There is a snug little harbor. If only we can find that—”
“Yes, if only we can. We—”
Suddenly Florence’s voice was drowned by a hoarse hoot that filled all the night.
“Oh!” she all but jumped out of the boat. Then she laughed. “The Passage fog horn! I have heard it at a distance.”
“Yes,” Katie agreed, “the light and the horn. They should have been there before.”
“Perhaps something was wrong with their power.”
After that, for some time neither girl spoke. Katie was busy with the oars and Florence with her thoughts. Long thoughts they were, you may be sure.
It was a relief to know their position. And yet, how much danger lurked before them? Ships going north pass between Isle Royale and Passage Island. Should they find themselves in the path of a freighter the black waters of the night might swallow up their smashed boat. Their fate would never be known. They were headed for Passage Island. But could they find the entrance to that harbor?
“Katie,” Florence said, “how wide is it?”
“Is what?” Katie demanded.
“The entrance to that harbor.”
“Twenty feet, I think,” Katie replied.
“Twenty feet!” Florence thought this but did not say it. Could they find such an entrance in the dark and could they, with waves mounting high, make that entrance? It seemed to her all but impossible.
A sudden feeling of rebellion swept over her. Here she was taking a day off, trying to have a good time. For weeks she had worked hard with little or no hope of reward. She had worked for the good of others. And now—
“It’s not fair!” she whispered. “Not fair at all.” Her fists clenched tight, she looked out over the black waters where white crests of foam played.
One moment more and she was in a different mood. What was it, after all, that she had asked of life? Thrills, adventure, suspense, mystery, that was it. Happy adventure. Well, she had known all these.
“And this,” she told herself stoutly, “shall be just one more happy adventure.”
But now Katie was straining eyes and ears. “We are close, perhaps too close,” she murmured. “Sometimes the waves, they bring you in.”
She veered to the right. Dashes of spray cut sharply at their cheeks. “We must take it,” she insisted, “or we may crash.”
Florence “took it” in silence.
The whole setting was strange beyond belief. With that bright light flashing above them they were in darkness. Not one trace could they see of the cliffs against which the waters dashed madly.
Then, for the first time, as if to light their way, there came a gleam from the clouds.
“Lightning!” said Florence.
“Rocks! Close—too close!” exclaimed Katie. They were both right.
The moments that followed will remain long in Florence’s memory. No more flashes came. The roar of surf on rocks was deafening. They were close. But how close? Were there low, jutting rocks ahead? Would there come a grinding crash and after that the end? Somewhere in that wall was a gap. Where? How were they to find it?
It seemed the darkness and suspense would become unbearable. Then came again that flash across the sky. Three flashes, close together. These served only to mock them. The first flash gave them hope. The rocky wall was still there. Perhaps the gap was only a little way ahead.
Now came a second flash. What was this? The wall was low now. It seemed that here were only jagged rocks. The girl’s heart sank.
One more moment passed into eternity, then another flash and she knew. About them was only black water flecked with foam. They had drifted past the mile-long island without finding the gap. They could not go back. They must go on. Where to?
Florence buried her face in her hands and tried to think, but her thoughts, like the sky and sea, were one mad whirl.
Rain came sweeping down upon the sea. This flattened out the waves but added greatly to their misery. The wind raced on. Riding with it they moved forward into the great dark unknown.
Just when Florence was ready to give up hope her keen ears caught again the sound of waves rushing over rocks.
“One more shore!” she exclaimed. “Is there another island?”
“No other island,” Katie’s voice was solemn, “only rocks.”
“Yes,” Florence thought as a fresh chill ran up her spine, “there are rocks.”
She remembered it now. She had seen them rising above the water. One was called Gull Rock. Sportsmen went there to fish. Were they approaching Gull Rock? And if they were? She found little comfort in such thoughts. The waves were still running high.
Forcing her mind away from the immediate terror, she thought of Dave and Jeanne, of Mike and Tony and the mysterious boy in the crimson sweater hiding away in the forests. Did he truly set the fires? If he did what was his motive? No one had seen him even close enough to know how he looked. Would Mike and Tony catch him? Would—
Of a sudden a dull, grating tremor passed through the staunch little boat.
“Wha-what happened,” she gasped. They had reached the crest of a wave. Now their boat was gliding backward. The darkness was intense. Peer as she might, she could see nothing save the dim outline of Katie’s body.
“It’s the rock,” Katie’s voice was deathly calm. “That wave was not high. The next will be higher. We will be carried onto the rocks. We must jump. It is our chance.”
She did not say, “Our only chance.” Florence knew it all the same. At that moment she was thankful for slacks and sneaks. They would improve her chance.
“Katie!” she cried, “The rock! Is it high?”
“Who knows? We must jump. Now—” Katie caught a long breath. “Now we are going up. Now—” There came a shuddering grind much more terrible than the first. “Now jump! And run—run away from the sea.”
Gripping the gunwale, Florence vaulted over the side, struck a slippery rock, all but fell, then, regaining her footing dashed with the energy of despair up the slanting rock.
Had not the stout Katie gripped her arm just in time, she must have dashed quite across the rock and have fallen down the steep side into the boiling water below.
As for Katie, there was no chance of over-valuing her wisdom at such a time.
“Come!” she cried, once her companion had regained a little of her composure, “That great wave left our boat on the rock. There will be three small ones, then perhaps a greater one. We must save our boat if we can. You on one side, I on the other, we must slide it higher.”
Left to herself, Florence would not have taken one step toward those racing waters, but inspired by her companion’s splendid courage, she retraced her steps, seized the boat and, with energy born of despair, did her full share of lifting the boat to a higher position.
“Now!” Katie panted. “Now! Now! And now!”
As she heaved away Florence counted the waves. “One, two, three.” Would the fourth be larger?
“Yes! Yes!” she cried, as its dark, shadowy bulk appeared to rise above her. “It—it—is a terrible one.”
“Run!” Katie cried once again.
Florence needed no urging. This time, however, she measured her distance with great care.
With anxious eyes they stared into the darkness. Had they done enough? Had their precious boat been saved, or would it go floating away, never to be seen again? Florence had visions of herself perched on a barren rock through a night of cold and darkness.
“Hurray! We win!” Katie exclaimed. “The boat is still there!”