How right he was the girl was soon to know. The rain did not last long. It made little impression on the blazing spruce trees. The wind changed, however, driving the fire back, and for the time being, Chippewa Harbor was safe.
Two hours later, after a hard but successful struggle to bring the crippled man back to civilization, Florence climbed wearily into her bunk for a few snatches of sleep.
Early as it was, when she came on deck next morning Florence found the slim, gray-haired man in a steamer chair.
“Now that we’ve found you,” she said with a laugh, “what do we do with you?”
“Just anything,” he smiled.
“That’s easy.”
“Where do you go from here,” he asked, “and what do you do?”
“We touch at the old lighthouse, where we tell the fishermen that the fire is pretty bad, but that we know hundreds of men are coming to fight it, and we feel sure they’ll win.”
“And after that?” He was still smiling.
“Rock Harbor Lodge is next. We tell them the same thing. Then Tobin’s Harbor. We’ll tell them not to worry; that if the fire threatens them, we’ll be right there to take them off.”
“And what do you get for all this?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she smiled back at him. “That is, no money—just satisfaction—heaps and heaps of satisfaction.”
“Then,” he looked at her in a puzzling manner, “after you’ve done these acts of kindness, you might run us round to McCargo’s Cove and pick up our small boat. We left it there. You shall be paid in cash for this service,” he added with a laugh.
“And then?” she queried.
“Do you return to the mainland?”
“We must, for fuel and possible passengers.”
“Then we’ll ride there with you. More money!” he laughed happily. “Why, you’ll be rolling in wealth!”
“At least,” she agreed, “we can pay for our fuel, and that’s something!”
As they made the rounds of fishing villages and lodges that day, it was the same old story—worried, anxious faces and whispered rumors of disaster for all of them in the near future. This brought the Wanderer’s crew a harvest of a sort. Lodge guests were anxious to leave the island. It became evident that when the boat headed for Houghton its decks would be lined with paying passengers. This brought a happy smile to the big girl’s face. “Perhaps,” she was thinking, “things will not be so bad after all.”
As for Jeanne, she was the life of the party. Donning a pair of coveralls miles too large for her, she staged a ludicrous dance she called “The Deckhands Promenade.”
When at last guests dragged a fiddle and a guitar from their baggage and sent a wailing, thumping tune drifting across the dark waters, she disappeared, to come popping out in her silver robe, and to execute a true gypsy dance that charmed her small audience.
“Jeanne, you are a grand prize!” Florence exclaimed when she had finished. “If only there were no fire, and this were a regular summer, you would charm all those land-loving people into a visit to our island just to see you dance!”
“Ah, well,” Jeanne replied soberly, “perhaps I shall yet dance before the flames and lead them into the waters where they will drown.”
“Yes,” Florence agreed, with a laugh, “the way the Pied Piper led the rats into the sea.”
Truly, things were looking up a little for young Skipper Dave and his crew. One thing was disturbing. Wherever they docked they heard this complaint, hundreds of men were arriving to fight the fire, the Iroquois was bringing them, but there was lack of organization and very little was being accomplished.
“If only Chips was here,” said a grizzled fisherman, as Dave and Florence left his dock. Strangely enough, they heard this again and again, always spoken by old men and with great respect, “If only Chips was here. If only Chips—”
Dave exclaimed at last, “I’d sure like to be that man Chips! Wonder if he’s real, or only a myth.”
“Wait and see,” said Florence.
If Florence had hoped that the gray-haired man whom they had rescued in such a dramatic manner, with his granddaughter, from Greenstone ridge, would, before leaving the boat, reveal his identity, she was doomed to disappointment. After paying his bill he gave directions for having his boat and other belongings taken ashore, then lost himself in the crowd that lined the dock seeking information regarding the fire.
“We haven’t seen the last of him,” Dave prophesied. “He wasn’t on the island just for a vacation, you may depend upon that.”
Was Dave right? What would that mean to their young lives if he were. To these questions Florence could form no answers.
“Took in one hundred and forty dollars this trip,” Dave exulted as he walked into town with Florence. “First thing we know we’ll be making money!”
Would they? For once Florence dared hope. Perhaps this fire was a blessing in disguise. With the Iroquois off the run, with army officers and park officials in a hurry to reach the island, and with a few daring souls still ready to spend a short vacation on the island, it did seem that they might hope. And yet, before nightfall hope had vanished.
It was two hours after they had docked. Florence was busy tidying up her galley when a gay party of six, three men and their wives, all attired in the latest sports togs, appeared on the dock.
“Is this the boat that goes to Isle Royale?” they asked.
“Yes, but—” Florence hesitated, “perhaps you haven’t heard—the island’s on fire.”
“Oh, yes, we’ve heard,” one of the women enthused. “That makes it all the more exciting. When do we sail?”
“Tomorrow evening at eight o’clock is our regular time.”
“Six round trip tickets,” the girl was thinking. “Sixty dollars. And perhaps—yes, there were three young officers coming down the dock—ninety dollars. Wonderful!”
But wait! There was a disturbance—the stout man who had taken such a dislike to Florence and Dave that first day of the fire, drew one of the six would-be passengers aside. Florence did not hear what he said, but, with a sinking heart, she saw him pointing to a large speedboat tied up at a smaller dock.
The man returned. There was a conference among the six prospective passengers. Florence caught only the words, “Speedboat! How thrilling!”
Turning to Florence, the little lady with the shining eyes said in an apologetic voice, “I—we’re so sorry, dear. We’ve decided to take the speedboat. Think of it! We can be over there in two hours, and it will be so thrilling!”
Florence made no reply. What was there to say? There was a sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach. Her shoulders drooped. “So that’s it!” she thought. “That man’s going into competition with us. He’s got influence. He’ll see that our license to carry passengers is not renewed. And yet,” her body stiffened, “he can’t keep us from serving the people of the island. We can still stand by.”
Then a strange thing happened. As the sunlight slowly receded from the summit of Copper Range, a short, stout man appeared on the dock. To Florence his dress seemed odd. A broad-brimmed black hat, blue shirt, overalls, cut off six inches from the ground and not hemmed, and high topped boots of coarse leather clothed the man. What he said gave her a start.
“I’m Chips.”
“Mr. Chips!”
“Just plain Chips,” the man corrected. “I want to go to Isle Royale.”
“Yes,” the girl exclaimed. “They want you and need you. The island is in flames.”
“I know. When do we sail?” Chips was all business.
“Why, ri-right away.” Florence took one bold fling at life. What would Dave say? Turning about, she set her boat whistle waking echoes among the sun-tipped hills.
Dave came on the run. “What’s the rumpus? What’s up?” he demanded.
“This,” she said, with as much dignity as she could command, “this is Chips. The island needs him. We’re sailing as soon as possible, that is—” her voice trailed off, “if you’re agreed.”
Dave said, “O. K. by me,” and it was done. One passenger. Ten dollars.
This was not the last unusual incident of that day—there was more to come. Chips had gone for his luggage. Florence was slowly pacing the deck when a girl shorter and broader than herself appeared before her on the dock.
“I am Katie,” said the girl. Florence knew she must be a Finlander.
“Katie who?” Florence smiled.
“I am Katie Eskelund,” said the girl. “And I am going to Isle Royale.”
“What place on Isle Royale?” Florence asked.
“Siskowit Bay.” The girl lowered a heavy blanket roll to the dock.
“She’s strong,” Florence thought, “strong as a man. How she could send a boat through the water!”
“Siskowit?” she said. “There are no women there. Only men and boys.”
“My brother is there,” said Katie. “He is fighting fire. I shall stay with him. I can fight fire.”
“Why! They won’t let you,” Florence exclaimed. “It’s a boys’ camp!”
“So-o,” the Finnish girl’s face clouded. “But my brother is there,” she insisted. “We are twins.”
“Oh!” Florence had some notion of what it meant to be a twin. She wanted to help this girl. But how?
Seized by a sudden inspiration she demanded, “Can you cook? Can you make pasties?”
“Oh, yes! Very good pasties.”
Pasties! How Florence’s mouth watered. Good little turnover pies all filled with meat, made only as the people of strange little Finland knew how.
Just then Dave came up from below. “Dave,” Florence smiled in spite of herself, “do you think we could use a cook on the Wanderer?”
“We—we might,” Dave seemed a little puzzled. “Come to think of it,” he added after a brief pause, “it would help. Looks to me as if we were stepping into something rather big. May be a day-and-night affair before we’re through. You’re O.K. for a cook but not twenty-four hours a day. And Jeanne, she’s fine, but a bit of a butterfly, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps,” Florence agreed, “anyway I want you to meet Katie. She’s no butterfly.” Katie grinned good-naturedly. “She wants to be our cook. She can make pasties.”
“Pasties. Oh! Boy!” Dave grinned. “Sure. Take her on.”
“I can make bread, too,” Katie volunteered eagerly. “Saffron buns and everything!”
Florence did not know what saffron buns were, but decided she could stand them at least once.
“All right,” she said, with a note of finality, “you are hired. Then perhaps you will see your brother now and then. You shall be our cook. That is,” her voice dropped, “if you want to.”
For answer, Katie Eskelund tumbled her blanketroll over the rail. That is how the Wanderer came by a new cook. And she was a cook indeed!
At eleven o’clock that same night Florence awoke. She was wide-awake. A feeling that all was not well disturbed her. What could it be? Were they having engine trouble? Had there been tampering on board? No, the motor throbbed sweetly. Was there a storm? Only a choppy sea that should have rocked her to sleep.
A breath of cold air brushed her cheek. Her stateroom door was open. How come? She sat up. The roll of the boat had banged it open. But look! She now stared away at the black waters. Had she caught a gleam of light out there? It did not seem probable. They were halfway across the lake, thirty-five miles from anywhere. And yet—yes, there it was! She saw it plainly now.
“It blinks!” she exclaimed aloud. “Distress signal! Oh, dear!” she sighed. “It seems as if the whole world’s in trouble.”
Hurriedly drawing on dressing gown and slippers, she climbed out into the chill air of night to find Dave in the pilothouse.
“Dave,” she said, “there’s a light out there. It blinks as if someone were in trouble. We—We’ll have to put about and go to his aid, won’t we?”
“Yes, I—I suppose so.”
“I’m going to make a big pot of coffee.” Dave twisted the ship’s wheel, turning the Wanderer toward the signaling light.
As the Wanderer came 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 the Wanderer!” a shrill voice screamed.
“That’s the little lady who was going to be so thrilled,” 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 the Wanderer was 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 the Wanderer and 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 the Iroquois? 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 the Wanderer did 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 the Wanderer rounded 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 the Wanderer. 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 was not meant 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.”