It was true. The wave had reached out, but not far enough. They were in possession of a shelter from the storm and a means of leaving when the storm had passed. Florence breathed a deep sigh of relief.
“Come,” said Katie, “we must lift it higher.”
“Oh!” Florence exclaimed, as, starting forward, she stumbled over some solid object and fell flat.
“Are—are you hurt?” Katie bent over her.
“No. I—I fell over something, Katie! It’s a driftwood log! We can use it for a roller. That makes it easy.”
So it did, in more ways than one. Having rolled the boat forward on the log, they fumbled in the prow of the boat for a fire-fighter’s hatchet they knew was there. They hacked at the log until there were dry chips aplenty.
Then Katie said, “We’ll tip over the boat. We’ll use part of the log to prop it up. This makes a house.” There was a note of pure joy in her voice. “I have matches in the pocket of my boot. They are always there. We shall have such a fine fire.”
Such a fine fire as it was, too. To Florence, whose teeth would not cease chattering, it seemed the jolliest fire in the world.
The north shore of Isle Royale is strewn with smooth, eight-foot pulpwood logs that have escaped from booms in Canada and, drifting across, have lodged on those shores. From the crevices of their rock Katie and Florence managed to gather nine of these dry logs. Soon four were blazing brightly.
Hidden from the wind by their over-turned boat, warmed by the fire, the girls managed to struggle from their soaked outer garments and prop them on sticks before the fire.
For a full hour they lay there before the blazing logs. Soaking in the cheering heat and dreaming, half asleep, they all but forgot that this spot was far from their snug floating home, theWanderer, and Isle Royale with all its problems.
When Florence at last sat up to stretch herself and stir up the fire, she exclaimed, “Katie, I’m hungry. Seems to me I remember something about a meal we were to eat on the rocks after the fishing was done.”
“Not these rocks.” Katie laughed a deep, happy laugh. “But these will do.”
They had planned a supper of planked fish on the rocks off Edward’s Island. Snugly stowed away in the prow of the boat was a closed tin bucket containing sandwiches, a small pie and salt for the fish.
With some difficulty, Katie managed to prepare a plank from a flat section of log.
“Now,” she said, “the fish.”
“The big one?” Florence asked.
“No. Never!” Katie was horrified. “That prize! No. We shall go home tomorrow and we shall say, ‘See, we have been fishing and we caught this one. Such a whopper!’” Once again she laughed her deep, mellow laugh.
“No,” she added, “one of the little ones will do very well. A two-pound fish. Who could ask for more?”
The fish was cleaned, boned and laid out flat on the plank. Then, with a wire, Katie bound it fast. For a full half hour after that the fish hung stewing and sizzling over the fire. Turning browner and browner, it was at last like the rich gold of an autumn leaf.
“Now,” said Katie with a sigh, “it is done.”
In her short life Florence had eaten many grand meals and in many a curious place. But none was as grand as this and no place more strange.
“Now,” she sighed when it was over, “we must sleep, for tomorrow will be another day.”
Sleep they did. Rolled up in their dried out garments, crowded close together before the great, glowing bed of coals, they slept the sleep of forgetfulness.
Twice during the night Florence was conscious of Katie’s movements as she replenished the fire, and that was all.
In the meantime, driven from her sun bath by that same storm, Jeanne had begun worrying about the safety of her friends.
“Must be getting pretty wild out there,” Dave said, as he tried to see through the driving fog.
“Do you think they would go far?” Jeanne asked anxiously.
“You know Florence,” was the reply. “She’d take a chance.”
Turning to a fishing guide on the dock he said, “Where are the best spots?”
“For lake trout fishing? Blake’s Point and Five Foot.”
“And neither is protected from storms?”
“I’ll say not,” the man laughed hoarsely. “Blake’s Point reaches out into Lake Superior like a pointing finger. Five Foot is a clean mile from anywhere.”
“Would it do any good to go out and look for them?” Dave asked.
“In this fog?” the man laughed again. “Not a bit. Never find them.
“Oh, they’re probably O.K.,” he consoled. “They’re a sturdy pair. They’d make a point on one of the small islands. Plenty of driftwood everywhere. With a good fire and moss for a bed they’ll get on very well.”
“And there are narrow channels between the small islands,” said Dave. “Storms don’t hit there. They may come sneaking in along the shore any time.”
Loaded with supplies, theIroquoisarrived alongside theWandererat dusk. Captain Frey was on board.
“Some of these supplies,” he said, “go to Florence Bay. That’s about twenty-five miles up the north shore. TheIroquoiscan’t get in there. We have a hundred fire-fighters there. They’ve been living on salt pork and beans for two days. How about going there tonight?” he asked Dave.
“We—we can do it,” was Dave’s prompt response. He was thinking of Florence and Katie. But his first duty was to those hungry men.
“If those girls don’t show up by dawn,” he said to the guide, “get out your boat and look them up. I’ll stand the expense.”
“O.K.,” was the prompt response, “you can depend on me.”
“I know that,” Dave replied heartily.
An hour later, well loaded with supplies, theWandererstole out into the night. From time to time as they moved slowly down the channel between small islands and at last around Blake’s point, they gave long blasts on their siren. The only response was the scream of a seagull or the wail of the wind.
The pitching of the boat made rest impossible, so, encased in sweaters, blankets and a huge oilskin coat, Jeanne sat huddled on deck, feeling the cold damp of spray on her cheeks, and wondering about the fate of her two good pals.
Shortly after midnight, guided by the light of a forest fire, they slipped into a narrow bay, there to be given an uproarious welcome by a hundred hungry men.
“We’ll wait the night out here,” was Dave’s decision. “There are supplies for McCargoe’s Cove on board. We’ll drop them off on the way back. And you—” there was an extra note of friendliness in his voice as he spoke to the little French girl, “you better get some sleep.”
Jeanne’s beauty-rest that night was a short one. However, her hours of dreaming in the sun the previous day stood her in good stead and she was up with the sun. Early as it was she found theWandererin motion.
After serving the crew with coffee and hot cakes, she came on deck to watch the shore line slipping by.
It was still early when the boat began sliding into McCargoe’s Cove. At the entrance of this cove was one of the most entrancing little islands Jeanne had ever seen.
“Oh, Dave!” she exclaimed. “Please drop me off in the dory and let me visit that island until you come back this way!”
“Sure! Be glad to.” Dave signaled for a stop. “They call it Birch Island. It’s a beauty.”
As she came close to the island in her small boat, Jeanne assured herself that here was a place of great enchantment.
White birches, evenly spaced and reaching for the sky, grew to the very water’s edge. Mingled with these were hundreds of fern-like balsams.
A single fisherman’s cottage, built of weather beaten logs, stood close to the shore. Silent and seemingly deserted, it told of another day.
That this cabin had not been long deserted, Jeanne was not slow in discovering. True, save for a few rusty cans of pepper, ginger and other spices, there was no food on the narrow shelves. But the frying pan, tea-kettle and coffee pot still shone brightly.
Leaving the cabin, the little French girl wandered down a narrow path that ran the length of the island. It was not a long walk. She was soon at the far end of the island. There, to her surprise, she discovered a second cabin. Perhaps one might say it was only a shelter. Built of driftwood logs, it had but three sides and a roof. The front was enclosed only by a mosquito-bar canopy.
When Jeanne had looked within she backed hurriedly away. She was, she thought, intruding on someone’s privacy. A few pots and pans hung against one wall, while on the opposite side, in considerable disarray, were garments, quite evidently a man’s. From the nature and color of these clothes she concluded the man must be from some city and quite a young man.
She was not long lacking in proof of this theory. Even as she stood there, the low thud of footsteps reached her. With a voiceless cry and a soundless leap, she was away in the bush.
She had escaped. Yet curiosity compelled her to linger for a peeping look through the bushes.
What she saw startled her no end. A tall, good-looking youth of uncertain age stood before the shelter. His gaze wandered from place to place. “He suspects something,” the girl told herself as her heart skipped a beat.
And then she barely avoided a gasp. She had, for the first time, noted his manner of dress.
“A crimson sweater!” she breathed. “The—the youth in the crimson sweater.”
Had she found any reason for questioning her judgment in this case it would not have been for long. Of a sudden, the youth glanced down at his feet then, without a backward look, dashed away into the bush.
Surprised and startled, Jeanne held her ground. For all this, her heart was beating a pretty tattoo against her ribs. Where had this boy gone? Would he return? And if he did what should she do? Her first thought was to slip swiftly and silently away. And yet—she recalled her first warning, dropped from the airplane. He had not heeded the warning, at least had not come out into the open and proved himself innocent. Would a second warning help? She dared hope it might.
With fingers that trembled in spite of her best efforts to control them, she drew a stub of a pencil from her jacket pocket, pulled a square of birch bark from a tree to serve as paper, then wrote in scrawled words:
“Second warning: You are suspected of a terrible crime. If you are innocent you will come out and clear yourself. Gypsies never forget.Signed,Gypsy Jeanne.”
“Second warning: You are suspected of a terrible crime. If you are innocent you will come out and clear yourself. Gypsies never forget.
Signed,Gypsy Jeanne.”
Why had Jeanne signed this second warning? Perhaps she could not have told. Was it because the youth in the crimson sweater seemed a rather romantic figure?
With knees that all but refused to support her, she moved slowly toward the shelter. Once there, she slipped inside, placed the note on a small, hand-made table, weighted it down with a stone, then, springing away like a startled deer, went racing toward the fisherman’s cabin and her boat.
Arrived at the small dock she found all serene as before. Some small bird whistled at her from a tree. A pine squirrel chattered at her. For a moment she stood there thinking. Why had the young man run away? He had seen something. What had it been? In a twinkle she had the answer, her handkerchief was gone. “Must have lost it and my initials were in the corner,” she thought, a little startled.
After that, shoving off in her boat, she rowed to the opposite shores, hid in a narrow cove and waited until Dave’s return, then climbed aboard and rode away without a word concerning her adventure.
Dawn came on the barren rock that had saved Florence and Katie from the storm. They were awakened by wild screams. These were uttered by a host of angry gulls demanding to know who had invaded their favorite roosting place during the night.
Breakfast of fish and gull’s eggs, a few bright hours of watching the waves lose their threat, then once more they were on the water.
Two hours of hard, double rowing against the wind, a line out for trout and two catches—one a beauty—then they were entering the Passage Island harbor they had missed before.
Exclaimed over and welcomed by the lighthouse keeper’s smiling wife, they were fed on roast beef and baked potatoes and brown gravy, plied with questions, and at last taken aboard a neat little motor craft that carried them back to Tobin’s Harbor and their astonished friend who had all but given them up as lost.
“See!” exclaimed Katie, true to her promise. “We have been fishing. And just look what we caught. A whopper!”
A whopper indeed it was—thirty-seven pounds by the scales—easily the best fish of the season. Was Florence proud? No end of it. There was, however, little time for strutting. A few moments of triumph and her insistent mind was demanding, “What of the future?”
“Where is theWanderer?” she asked.
“Somewhere on the north shore,” was the answer. “Make yourself comfortable. They should be back before dark.”
In two big chairs before a driftwood fire the girls dozed the hours away. And so ended one more happy adventure that might not have been so happy after all, had it not been for Lady Luck’s kindness and Katie’s good, strong arms.
When Florence learned of Jeanne’s exciting discovery on Birch Island she was for going there at once.
“You saw him!” she exclaimed. “The boy in the crimson sweater? The firebug?”
“Yes,” Jeanne replied quietly. “The boy in the crimson sweater.”
“What is he like? Does he look dangerous? What if—”
Florence shot a dozen more questions at Jeanne. Strangely enough, the little French girl was quite vague in her answers, much more so than the occasion warranted. And, when the question of her accompanying Florence arose, she pleaded a headache.
“It’s only a two hour’s run in a small motor boat,” Florence said to Dave. “You have another wait of several hours?”
“That’s right.”
“Then suppose I hire the lodge fishing boat and get Indian John to run me over here?”
“O.K. by me. You might take Katie with you. But watch your step! If this fellow is really a firebug, he may be dangerous.”
“I’ll watch,” Florence was off.
Arrived at Birch Island, they found the fisherman’s cottage just as Jeanne had left it. But when, after a silent march down the island, they came to the spot where the log shelter had stood, they discovered that it was gone.
“Every trace of it,” Florence exclaimed.
No, this was not quite true. Dry moss had been strewn over the spot upon which it had stood. When this was dragged away, they found a smooth, hard surface which once had been an earthen floor.
“Jeanne was not dreaming.” Florence looked about her as if expecting the mysterious boy to appear. “There has been a shelter here. But now it’s gone.”
“Easy to move,” said Indian John. “Take ’em down logs. Put ’em in boat. Row away, that’s all.”
“Yes, or just throw the logs into the lake and let them float away,” said Katie.
For some time they stood there in silence. At last Florence said, “I am not Jeanne and not a gypsy, but she says there is always a third warning and so there shall be.”
Imitating Jeanne, she wrote her warning on birch bark. It read:
“The Gypsy’s third warning. And the last. A last chance to clear yourself. Once we leave Birch Island, we shall set a company of fire-fighters on your trail.Signed,The Gypsy’s Friend.”
“The Gypsy’s third warning. And the last. A last chance to clear yourself. Once we leave Birch Island, we shall set a company of fire-fighters on your trail.
Signed,The Gypsy’s Friend.”
After pinning this note to a tree with the aid of three long thorns, she was prepared to follow her companions back to the fisherman’s cabin.
It was a silent and mystified Florence who walked slowly back. All that had happened appeared to prove that she was right. This boy wished to hide. Why, unless he were doing wrong? And what was more probable than that he was setting fires? And yet— Why had Jeanne been so silent, so reluctant to tell all?
As they at last stood again on the small fisherman’s dock, Florence looked at Indian John’s jet black hair and smiled.
“John,” she said, “you are rapidly growing gray. There are white ashes in your hair.”
It was true. Fine white specks of ash were slowly drifting down from the sky.
“The threat is still with us,” the girl murmured.
Nor, on this day, was it long in making itself known. A brisk wind, blowing off the island, began bringing in an uncomfortable feeling of heat. Then, quite suddenly, like battling troops coming out of the trenches, a long line of flames appeared at the crest of a low ridge not a mile from Birch Island.
“Florence!” Katie exclaimed. “It is terrible. This beautiful island will burn unless—”
“Unless what?” Florence asked eagerly.
“Unless we can save it.”
“How?”
“There are many birch trees, not so many balsams. Balsam needles will catch from sparks. Birch leaves will not. If we cut away the balsams and throw them into the water—”
“We must try,” Florence broke in. “All this,” her gaze swept the small island, “must not be destroyed.
“John,” she said, turning to the Indian, “run the boat to a safe spot and anchor it. Come back in the skiff. We must all do our best.”
“Perhaps,” she thought grimly a moment later, “that boy in the crimson sweater will be smoked out like an owl in a hollow tree.”
Very little she knew about the truth of her prophesy. Not knowing, she dragged a dull ax from the fisherman’s cabin and began doing her bit to save Birch Island.
It was a battle indeed. As the wind increased and the fire crept closer not ashes alone, but tiny, glowing sparks fell at their feet.
Whacking away at the trunks of small spruce trees, dragging them to the water’s edge, then whacking and dragging again, Florence never faltered. Grim, grimy, and perspiring, hating her dull ax, she toiled doggedly on. One thought was uppermost in her mind, this battle, perhaps their last, must be won.
And then she received a sudden shock. A boy stood beside her. Taller than she, he smiled down at her. He was dressed in high boots and corduroys. His blue, plaid shirt was open at the neck. In his hand he carried an ax with a razor-like edge. She had never seen him before.
“Come on in,” she invited.
“What are you doing, may I ask?” He smiled again.
“We are saving this island,” she fairly snapped. “If—if we get all the balsams out it won’t burn.”
“Say! That—that’s an idea!” His face brightened like a sky after a storm.
“I’ll cut. You drag ’em off,” he said shortly.
After that for a full hour it was cut and drag, cut and drag, a seemingly endless task. And the fire grew hotter every moment.
Not even the girl’s strenuous endeavors could keep her from wondering about that boy. Who was he? Where had he come from? Why was he here?
“He works like one who is defending his own home,” she told herself.
Strangely enough there was something vaguely familiar about his movements. “As if I had seen him before. But I can’t have.”
Then a strange and mystifying thing happened, as the boy bent over to pick up his ax which had slipped from his aching fingers, a small square of white fluttered from his pocket to the ground. He was quick in retrieving it but not quick enough. In one corner of this girl’s handkerchief Florence had read the initials, “J. E.”
“Jeanne’s handkerchief,” she whispered to herself with sudden shock. “Where did he get it and why does he keep it?” Strangely enough, at that moment, all unbidden, three words came into her mind, “The Gypsy’s warning.” Then the stern business of the moment claimed her entire attention.
The last, slim end of the island was closest to the fire. The heat became all but unbearable. Twice the boy’s cotton shirt began to smoke. At last he drew it off, and dipped it in water, to put it on again.
Then came the moment when the last balsam tree toppled into the water.
“Come on,” he grabbed Florence’s arm. “We gotta get out o’ here quick.”
They did get out quick.
When at last Florence reached her skiff where Katie and Indian John were anxiously waiting, to her astonishment she saw the strange boy go racing away.
“Wait!” she called. “Come back.”
Did he hear? It seemed he must. But he raced straight on.
“We’ll just row out a little where the heat is not so bad,” Florence suggested. “Then we’ll wait and see what happens.”
This they did. The moment when the raging furnace reached the water’s edge, then came to a sudden halt, was a glorious one indeed.
Florence was watching with all her eyes when, of a sudden, she seemed to hear oarlocks creaking. At first, looking out over the smoke-clouded water she saw nothing. Then she caught the shadowy outline of a small boat moving out on the water.
“Must be that boy,” she told herself. “But where is he going?”
The answer came to her at once. Beyond him was the outline of a small power boat. He was rowing toward that.
Strangely enough, just as he reached the motor boat’s side, a current of air lifted the smoke and everything stood out clearly.
“Itisthat boy,” Florence said aloud. “But what’s he doing?”
“Standing up in his row-boat,” said Katie.
“Putting on a sweater. A crimson sweater!” Florence was ready to fall from the boat in her excitement. “He—he’s that boy, the boy in the crimson sweater. And how he has fought this fire!
“And that motor boat!” she exploded again. “It’s the one Jeannie says carries the Phantom Fisherman.”
Then, as if a curtain had been dropped, the smoke fell hiding the boy in the crimson sweater, the Phantom and all. Was Florence sorry? She could not tell.
She did not know it at that moment, but this was the last time she was to see either the Phantom or the boy in the crimson sweater on Isle Royale.
“It’s the end,” Florence thought, as they went chugging back toward Tobin’s Harbor. “The wind is really shifting. It will drive the fire back upon itself.” Even as she thought this, cold drops of rain struck her cheek. Rolling up from across the lake a real rainstorm, the first in weeks, was on its way.
Two hours later, drenched to the skin but joyously happy, the little party arrived at Tobin’s Harbor.
Late that night, the great log cabin used as a lounge for the lodge was comfortably crowded with people. The little fisherman’s wife was there. One child was asleep in her lap, another played at her side. On her face was a look of joy.
“Listen!” she was saying to the old man near her, “how it rains!” Great sheets of rain were beating against the window panes. “A northeast wind,” she added in a whisper, “the fires are over. Our homes and our islands are safe.”
This was the joyous feeling in every heart. That was why they were there. Drawn together by an invisible bond of common interest and friendship in hope and in despair, they had gathered to celebrate.
In the corner, an impromptu trio—piano, cello and violin—began playing,Over the Waves.
As the music rose and fell, as the sparks from the driftwood fire leaped toward the sky, Florence thought that no moment in her whole life had been as joyous as this.
“Jeanne,” she exclaimed, “you must dance. Dance to the patter of rain on the roof.”
“Yes,” Jeanne agreed almost eagerly, “I shall dance. I have been practicing a new dance quite in secret.”
“A new dance,” exclaimed one of the musicians, “what is it?”
“Dance of the Flames,” said Jeanne.
“Good! We have the very thing, an Indian dance to the fire god—you shall dance to our music.”
A few moments later, after the lights had been dimmed, when the flames from great logs in the broad fireplace leaped high and the strains of a weird Indian dance rose from the corner, a slender figure clad in garments of orange and red, with two long scarfs streaming behind, came dancing into the room.
It would be hard to describe the dance that followed. Only the little French girl could have so caught the movement and seeming spirit of flames. Now she was a low fire creeping stealthily upon some stately spruce tree. And now, urged on by some mischievous wind, she went rushing forward. And now, by a trick performed with the scarfs, she appeared to rise straight in air as the flames rushed to the very top of the tree.
When at last, quite exhausted, she flung herself down at Florence’s side, there came a burst of applause that would have done credit to a much larger gathering.
Katie arrived with a great pot of delicious hot chocolate and a pan of cakes. They ate and drank and then, led by a very pious old cottager, sang a hymn of thanks to the God who, with their aid had saved their island for them and for their children, years on end.
“Jeanne,” Florence whispered, as they groped their way back to the boat, “it is for such times as these that we live.”
“Ah, yes,” the little French girl agreed, “for such times as these.”
Just then Florence caught the sound of a voice that caused her to start. “Ya dese fires dey will be over now. Dis is de end we is been waiting for so long.”
At that Florence did a strange thing. Rushing up to the aged fisherman who had spoken she said, “You are the man!”
“Ya, I is de man,” the fisherman agreed, “but what man, this is de question?”
“Twice I heard you say the fires were being set.”
“Ya, it may be so.”
“Why did you say that? Was it true?”
“Perhaps ya. Perhaps no,” was the strange answer, “dese is been hard times. Might be we old men think too many t’ings.” At that the old man disappeared as silently as usual into the night, leaving the girl with her own thoughts.
All that night it rained, a slow, steady downpour. The wind that for weeks had been driving the fire forward shifted. It was now driving the fire back against itself. Everyone agreed that the battle was won. There was great rejoicing on the island. The whole country received the glad report by newspaper and radio.
Tim O’Hara, in his New York radio tower, at once got off a wire to Florence.
“Congratulations. Stop. Have set your appearance on our program for next Tuesday. Stop. Ticket will await you at Houghton.Signed,Tim O’Hara.”
“Congratulations. Stop. Have set your appearance on our program for next Tuesday. Stop. Ticket will await you at Houghton.
Signed,Tim O’Hara.”
“He wants me to come to New York,” Florence exclaimed. “New York,” she repeated softly. “He wants me to tell the story of our fight to save the island, tell it on his Adventurer’s Club radio program. Just think! Coast to coast! Millions of people will hear. Shall I go?”
“Go?” Dave roared. “Of course you’ll go. Finest publicity in the world for our island. And think of the time you’ll have!”
“And I shall go with you,” said Jeanne.
“Sure! Why not?” Florence threw her arms about her. “No great occasion would be complete without you.”
The two pals did little else save eat and sleep on their way to New York. From time to time they discussed the mysterious boy in the crimson sweater.
“He was a nice looking boy,” Jeanne mused. “Not a bit like a firebug.”
“No,” Florence agreed. “Not a bit. I can’t think he was one. All the same I would like to know why he always ran away.”
“Was there a firebug at all?” Jeanne asked.
“Probably no one will ever know. Many of the mysteries of this old earth are never solved.”
“Take a taxi from the depot.” This had been the order in Tim’s letter. Florence took him at his word. After handing a grinning redcap a whole quarter, she stepped into one of those luxurious New York taxis, and said, “Hilton Hotel, please.”
Then she settled back against the cushions and sighed, “Boy! This is life.”
At the hotel desk Tim O’Hara’s letter proved an open-sesame to all that was grand and luxurious. They were ushered to a room with delightfully low, twin beds, delicately shaded light, spinet desk and even a radio.
Florence thought of their crowded quarters on theWandererand sighed.
But not for long. To the accompaniment of soft music, breakfast was served in the great dining room below.
One more taxi and they were at the radio building. A moment later and they looked into Tim O’Hara’s beaming eyes.
“I am glad you could come!” he exclaimed. “I am sure you have a grand story.
“And this is Jeanne.” He gripped the little French girl’s hand. “Any new dances?”
“Just one.” Jeanne smiled.
“Dance of the Flame,” Florence explained.
“Sounds great! But then,” Tim added, “you can’t dance on the radio.”
“More’s the pity,” said Florence. “It is a glorious dance. Truly fantastic and—and—”
“Yes, I see,” said Tim O’Hara. “You really can’t describe it. We shall have it somehow, somewhere.
“But now,” he was all business, “the other members of the cast are here. Step into my office.”
There three men awaited them: a bronze-faced giant, a man of very ordinary appearance and a slim, wiry man with sharp black eyes. The first had been hunting lions in the heart of Africa, the second had been driving dog teams in the “farthest north” and the third was a revenue man, who hunted down moonshine stills in the mountains of Kentucky. Each had known perils and adventures. Each, in his own way, was to tell his story.
“This is just a get-together,” said Tim O’Hara when introductions had been attended to. “We’re going to work together for three days—and by that I meanwork. So we should know one another.”
After that in a very informal manner each told of his experiences. When Florence had heard the others she felt the least bit unimportant. But when, with a word here and there from Jeanne and Tim, she had got truly warmed up to her subject which, she laughingly explained, was rather a hot one (fighting fires) she realized that they all were listening with undivided interest.
“It wouldn’t be a complete show at all without your part,” Tim O’Hara murmured in her ear when the others were gone. “Your story is truly thrilling. And it has humor, interest and real heart-throbs. We’ll play up those little fishing cabins and the old men who have been coming to the island for so many years. You come back at two-thirty and we’ll write the script.”
“Oh!” Florence exclaimed. “Must there be a script? Can’t I just tell it in my own words.”
“Your own words? Surely! But it must be put on paper. Come back at two-thirty. You shall see it all worked out in a very grand manner.” He bowed them from the room.
“So this is New York?” Florence breathed as they once again found themselves on the sidewalk. “How thrilling!”
“Over one block is 5th Avenue,” said Jeanne. “So very wonderful! Gift shops eight stories high. Everything!”
“Fifth Avenue, here we come!” Florence exclaimed, seizing Jeanne by the hand. Once they had discovered the broad avenue, so alive and gay, they wandered on and on. In one shop they bought a bright plaid neck-tie for Dave, and in another still brighter dress material for Katie. In a music shop around the corner Jeanne purchased a small statue of a very great dancer.
“For my studio,” she said with a gay laugh. “The place of my dreams.”
“Ah yes,” Florence thought with a sigh, “how much of all our lives is made of dreams. And how very cold and lonely we would be without them.”
This mood passed quickly. “Jeanne,” she exclaimed, as a clock caught her eye, “we must have lunch and get back to that office!”
“Fried oysters!” said Jeanne as they seated themselves at a bright green table. “Shoestring potatoes, coffee and lemon pie. Why not? This is New York.”
Fried oysters it was and all the rest. Then a taxi whisked them away to Tim O’Hara.
“Now,” Tim said to Florence, as he leaned back in his chair to close his eyes, “tell me all about it in greater detail.”
“New—New York?” she stammered. “It—it’s grand!”
“Not New York.” His eyes flew open. “Tell me about Isle Royale.” His eyes closed again.
Florence did tell him. Told him in her own dramatic manner. From time to time he interrupted her to exclaim, “That was a close one—That’s grand—Just grand—You mean you were trapped by the fire? They flew over you and dropped the dog? A moose went after the dog? You heard him ki-yi? Say! That’s a grand story!” At this his eyes popped wide open.
“But this boy in the crimson sweater,” his eyes closed again. “Tell me about him.”
“He—he disappeared.” Florence hesitated. “I wish we could find him. He put up such a wonderful fight for that beautiful little island. He wasn’t the firebug. Probably there wasn’t any firebug. He knows we suspected him. I—I wish we could find him.”
“We will.” Tim’s eyes were wide open now. “Why not?”
“Do you suppose we really could?”
“You’d be surprised.” Tim leaned forward in his chair. “We pick all sorts of people right out of the air. As if we had a string on ’em.
“Little while back a man was telling about his adventures buying unclaimed trunks at auction and trying to find their owners. One very mysterious case baffled him. He told about it over the air and what do you think?”
“Wha-what?”
“Two days later he heard from the owner.
“You’re going to ask a million people to send that boy in the crimson sweater to you and to tell you his story. And they will send him. Someone surely will.
“But now,” continued Tim, “we’ll write your script.” For a half hour he pecked away at his typewriter. Then, with a sigh, he murmured, “A mighty fine story. That’s all for now. Tomorrow in Studio Six we rehearse.”
Four hours later the two girls stepped out on the brightly lighted streets of America’s greatest city. It was night. A slender, gray-haired man, with stooping shoulders offered them an evening paper.
As Florence took the paper and dropped a nickel into his hand she could not help noting how bright his eyes were.
“Isn’t New York wonderful?” she said in a deep voice full of emotion.
“Yes,” the old man agreed. “It’s wonderful when you’re young. But don’t stay too long.”
“Why—why not?” she was puzzled.
“New York takes you by the hand and whirls you ’round and ’round. It’s very wild and gay and it makes you drunk. But bye and bye—well,” he sighed, “look at me. You’d never guess it but I was once a reporter on that very paper you bought. It whirls you ’round and ’round.” His voice cracked. “Don’t stay too long, child. Don’t stay too long.”
“A reporter!” Florence exclaimed. “I knew a reporter. He went away to New York, Peter Kepple.”
“Ah, yes,” the old man sighed, “I knew him here. He died—let me see, two years ago. Don’t stay too long, Miss.”
Then his shrill old voice rose above the rush and roar of New York.
“Paper! Paper! Get your evening paper here.”
When they were half a block away Florence seemed to hear him calling, “Don’t stay too long.” How long was too long? She did not know.
That night Florence dreamed of herself as a gray-haired woman in a drab shawl selling papers on Christmas Eve.
The bright sun of next day drove all such dark fancies from her mind.
“Jeanne!” she exclaimed as she bounced out of bed, “Today we rehearse. Tomorrow we rehearse again. And that night comes the big show!”
As the hours passed, Florence found herself losing all thought that she was simply to make a little six-minute talk into a microphone. The feeling grew upon her with every passing moment that she was to be a part of a truly big thing.
And why not? Was she not preparing to speak to a million people? Would the opportunity ever come again? Perhaps not. And would not her friends be listening? Crowded about their radios on Isle Royale, in Chicago, in far-away Alaska, would they not be saying, “That’s Florence! How natural her voice sounds!” Ah, yes, it was to be wonderful.
Nor did Tim O’Hara allow a single member of his cast to forget the importance of his part. Every moment of rehearsal found them keyed up to a high pitch.
There were individual rehearsals, general rehearsals, a rehearsal for recording. And then, on the second day, Florence caught her breath as she was ushered into a large theater.
“Is this the place?” she asked, staring at a “mike” in the center of the stage.
“This is the place,” was the answer.
“And will there be people here?”
“Two thousand people.” Florence was ready to bolt out of the door.
“Oh, but my dear!” Jeanne exclaimed. “It is just another show. Remember how I sang in light opera.”
“Yes, but you are you and I am I.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Jeanne. “One or a million! Tell them! I know you can.”