“Oh, no!” Florence exclaimed. “You only see him in a fog.” The fact is, the big girl scarcely believed in this phantom at all.
“See for yourself!” Seizing her arm, Jeanne pointed away over the shimmering water to a spot well beyond the last jagged end of the island.
“There!” she exclaimed, “there he is!”
“Sure enough. Let’s have a look.” Florence dragged a pair of heavy field glasses to her eyes.
“Seems real enough,” she murmured. “White boat with a red gunwale, sort of short and chubby. I’d know that boat anywhere. What a powerful motor he must have! How he does dart about!”
“If we were there he would vanish,” Jeanne insisted.
“Jeanne, you’re a dreamer.” Florence let the glasses drop to her side. “But then, what is one to expect from a gypsy, you—”
At that instant a cry escaped her lips. “Look! Only look, Jeanne!” She had turned half-about. “Smoke everywhere! The whole island is on fire!”
This seemed indeed true. To judge distances was difficult but it looked as though the nearest fire must not be more than ten miles away. Beyond that the whole island was hidden by smoke.
Even as Jeanne looked, Florence exclaimed again, “Look!”
Once again, dragging the heavy fieldglasses to her eyes, she studied a mass of rocks that at some distance rose above the treetops.
“A man,” she murmured, “A man in a bright red sweater. Must be five miles away, where no one lives.”
The man had been leaping from rock to rock. Now he paused to turn and look away. Did Florence see a fresh column of smoke rise from the evergreen forest? She thought so. She could not be sure.
“He’s young,” she thought. “Perhaps only a boy. Not even a middle-aged person could go over the rocks like that. Can he be a firebug? Are these fires being set by him?”
To these questions there could be no answer for the present. One thing was certain. If she saw him again close by and he wore that sweater, she would know him, for surely there was but one such flash of red on the island.
Two hours later the girls were having lunch with Edith Mateland, the wife of one of the fishermen. She was a small person, and Florence thought rather frail for such a life.
“Edith,” Florence said, “do people ever set forest fires?”
“Oh, yes. Many times!” was the startling reply.
“But why?”
“Perhaps they do not like the people who own the timber.”
“Revenge?”
“Yes. And perhaps they just want work.”
“Work?” Florence stared.
“Oh, yes,” Edith explained. “These days there are many who have no work. If there is a very terrible fire men will be hired to fight it. Thousands of men.”
“Oh! but these wouldn’t do that!”
“It has been done many times.” There was a ring of truth in Edith’s voice. She was of the North. She knew.
Florence thought of the hundreds of men being brought to the island to fight this fire. One thing was certain. If there was a firebug on this island he must be caught. She would ask questions of people here and there about the mysterious youth in the crimson sweater. She would search far and wide for him. If he seemed to avoid her she would hunt him down. He should not escape. So, fired by a new resolution, she rowed back to the Wanderer.
She had barely reached the Wanderer when a messenger, having raced over the two-mile trail from Rock Harbor Lodge, appeared on the shore. Quite out of breath, and greatly excited, he shouted across the narrow stretch of water,
“Hey, there! Chippewa Harbor is burning!”
“What?” Florence was startled. “How do you know?”
“Got a short wave message from Ve and Vi, whoever they are.”
“Ve and Vi,” Florence said, “they are the fisherman’s daughters. They have a short wave outfit for winter use. I shouldn’t wonder,” she hesitated. Then she shouted across to the messenger, “Who’s there?”
“At Chippewa? Only the fishermen and a troop of boys.”
“Boys? What boys?”
“Troop No. 18.”
“Eight-eighteen?” The big girl’s hopes fell. She knew those boys. City bred, they knew nothing of fire fighting. Two boys, Mike and Tony—the worst of the lot—she suspected, were their leaders. What was to be expected from them?
“Go back and get a message to them. Tell them we’re coming!” she called.
“But what’s the good?” Dave demurred, as Ruth ordered the deck cleared for action. “If the place is burning what can be done?”
“You know as well as I,” Florence replied rather sharply, “that reports on this island are always exaggerated. The least we can do is to go over there and take the folks off. Think of losing everything,” she said in a sober tone, “Home, furnishings, everything—the work of a lifetime.”
Soon they were skirting the rocky shores, headed for Chippewa, sixteen miles away. Sitting on the deck, Florence closed her eyes, and tried to picture in her mind the snug little harbor with its tiny huts, its toy-like log cabin store and its little group of fishing folk. Had she seen it all for the last time? It would seem so, for as her eyes opened she saw a long column of yellow smoke trailing out over the lake. As they rounded a point some two miles from the harbor, her anxiety increased. So dense was the smoke that it did not seem that one building could be left standing.
Imagine her surprise and joy when upon rounding the final jutting of rock she beheld Chippewa Harbor just as she had seen it last!
“Doomed, for all that,” Dave said soberly. “Look at that line of fire not a half-mile off and coming this way!
“For once,” he spoke slowly, “the Wanderer is going to run.”
“Oh! No! Not yet!” Florence remonstrated.
“Not yet, but soon,” was the reply. “When we touch the dock you tell those folks to get everything that’s portable on the deck of this boat without delay.”
“But will they do it?” All too well the girl knew the stubborn determination of these Scandinavian people.
To her surprise she found the fisher-folk ready to comply. They had seen enough, were ready to admit themselves beaten. Even the troop of city boys, who knew nothing of fire fighting, joined in the rescue work. In no time at all the cottages, fishhouse and store were stripped.
“What about these?” a boy asked, pointing to several large boxes.
“Government property,” Florence decided. “They stay.”
“When do we go aboard?” Mike, leader of the boys’ troop, asked.
“You don’t go!” Florence gave him a strange smile. “You, too, are government property. Oh, you won’t burn,” she added, as she saw the sullen look on the boy’s face deepen. “All you have to do is run over the ridge, climb down fifty feet, and find a good place to rest. The fire will never touch you. Besides—” She did not finish.
“All right. Swing off. I’m staying.” There was a bluntness about her tone, as for the first time she gave Dave an order.
“But why? You can’t—” Dave did not finish. She shot him a look. He had seen that look on her face before.
“Cast off the line,” he said. Shuffling to the post, the boy called Tony lifted the line and gave it a fling.
“Well?” Tony growled, giving Florence a hard look. “So you’re stayin’?”
Florence did not answer, for at that moment robust Katie appeared at the ship’s rail. One look at Florence and, boy-like, she vaulted the rail, sailed over three feet of water, and landed with a thud on the dock.
In sudden consternation, Florence saw that Jeanne, too, was preparing to try the leap to shore. By this time the distance was too great. She would fall into the water and might be injured by the boat’s propeller.
“No! Jeanne!” she screamed, “Don’t jump. Stay on the boat. They may need you.”
Laughingly Jeanne held up her hands in sign of surrender then disappeared down the hatchway.
“So you’re stayin’, too?” said the boy called Mike turning to Katie.
“You bet I’m stayin’,” said Katie. “Maybe we can lick that fire even if a whole army can’t.”
“Aw, now don’t you get excited,” said Mike, with a leering grin. “It takes men to fight a fire.”
“What’s in those boxes?” Florence demanded, ignoring their banter.
“We don’t know exactly,” said Tony. “Mebby they might be pumps.”
“Pumps?” The girl’s eyes widened. “Why don’t you open them up and see?”
“Captain’s gone,” said Mike. “Left yesterday. We can’t—”
“You can’t do a thing until he comes back!” There was biting sarcasm in Florence’s voice. “Not if the whole island burned!”
“That’s what we want,” Tony jeered. “Exactly it. When it’s all burned we can go back to the mainland.
“Lookit,” he waxed fairly eloquent, “What sort a place is this? Y’ can’t crank up the flivver on Saturday night and go to town ’cause there ain’t no flivver. An’ y’ can’t go see the girls and get a glass a beer ’cause there ain’t no gals and there ain’t no beer.”
“Too bad!” said Florence, reaching for an ax that was leaning against the dock house, and giving one of the six boxes a sharp crack.
“Y’ can’t do that!” Tony exclaimed. “Government property.”
“Can’t I?” She swung her ax again, knocking off a board. Crack—crack—crack. The box broke away, revealing a neat contraption.
“It is a pump!” The girl’s eyes shone. “Any of you know how to run it?”
No answer. Her eyes wandered to the nearby ridge. A giant spruce, ignited from below, blazed clear to the sky in one terrifying whash. Seizing the remains of the box, she cast them into the bay.
“Looks like an outboard motor,” she murmured. “Shouldn’t wonder if it was made like one.”
“Yes! A rope to start it!” exclaimed Katie, grabbing a short rope with a wooden handle attached. “I’ll try it!”
“You’ll get the devil for that!” Mike threatened. “Can’t fool with government property.”
“You can’t and you don’t want to!” Florence flared up. She was uncoiling a forty-foot hose. “You’d rather let the island burn. It might be a playground for thousands. Tired people could rest here.”
“Yeah, rest!” Mike sneered, “Who’d want to rest? Go places! See things! That’s me!”
“You’ve eaten Mrs. Carlson’s doughnuts and slept in her cabins when it was raining, and now,” Florence threw him a look of scorn.
“You’re too fresh!” With a threatening gesture Tony moved closer along the edge of the rock.
To all this Katie gave no heed. She had discovered a small tank on the pump. This she had filled with gasoline. Now she was fitting the knot of the short rope into its place. If this pump worked like an outboard motor she could start it. And then—
Florence was thinking all this when with a start, her mind was brought back to Mike.
“Think y’re smart, don’t yer?” There was a dangerous glint in his eye. He took a step toward her—another, and another. “Think I’m a guttersnipe, don’t y’—a tough city guy? Well, that’s what I am. I—I’ll show y’.” He took one more step.
“No!” Florence tried in vain to steady her wildly beating-heart. “No! That’s not what I think at all. I don’t care where you came from nor what you’ve been. I only know what you are now. What you’re doing. Lying down on your job—leading all these boys the wrong way. You’re ungrateful—you—”
“Think yer smart,” Mike stepped closer.
“Don’t do that, Miss,” a wavering voice came from the line. It was the smallest, most timid boy of the lot who spoke. And yet—he had courage.
Swallowing hard, the girl tried to speak. Words would not come. Mike’s fists were clenched hard as he moved one step nearer. He was closely followed by Tony.
“Don’t let him, Miss,” came in that same wavering voice.
And then the thing happened. Three times, all unknown to Florence, the powerful Katie had pulled the rope that turned the wheel of the strange pump that looked like an outboard motor. All that time Florence had held the hose in her hand. Once again Katie gave the rope a vicious jerk. And then! Was it like an outboard motor? Like ten outboard motors all in one the thing thundered—the hose in Florence’s hand writhed and twisted like a snake. It swung half around her neck, tripped a boy passing down the line, stiffened like a bent and twisted gas pipe, then shot forth a stream that would have gone forty feet if it had not encountered an obstacle. That obstacle was Mike’s broad chest!
Thrown off his balance by that irresistible force, with the swiftness of light, Mike spun half-way round, rose in air, then went plunging into space. When space rejected him, the glad, cold waters of the harbor opened their arms to receive him!
Startled, thrown into sudden consternation by this turn of events, Florence, without intending it at all, swung the hose about and the stream sent Tony plunging after his pal.
Then, like some creature that has done its work swiftly and well, the pump coughed twice, and lapsed into silence. Above this silence there rose a low laugh. It ran all down the line of boys and all the way back again.
Taking advantage of the situation, Florence exclaimed, “Boys, we have pumps. You all have homes. If they were in danger, you’d save them if you could. You’ve got to help save this home now! Get those boxes open. Quick. Fill the tanks. Turn ’em over. If half the pumps work, we’ll win!”
Catching the spirit of the moment thirty boys leaped into action. In the shortest imaginable time five pumps were coughing and sneezing like five bull moose come up for air.
“This,” Florence thought, with a sudden touch of despair, “is all right. But how shall we reach the fire?” Her eyes fell upon a dozen gasoline barrels piled neatly by the dock house.
“Quick!” she exclaimed. “Cut two holes in the top of each barrel. Then roll four up the ridge, each about forty feet from the next one.”
Though they did not understand why, the boys followed her directions. When this was done, she said, “Now! Two of you to a pump. Take them up to the barrels!”
“Bu-but, Miss, we don’t understand,” said the small, timid boy.
“There’s little time for explaining,” Florence snapped. “But this is the idea, each pump will throw water thirty or forty feet.”
“Yea, yea,” they agreed, “but it’s a hundred and fifty to the top of that first ridge.”
“That’s just it,” the girl explained. “The first pump will force the water up to the first barrel. Then we will put the short hose of the second pump in that barrel and draw the water out. That second pump will carry the water another thirty feet to the second barrel.”
“And so on and on to the top,” someone exclaimed. “It’s a grand idea. Think of a girl workin’ that out all by herself! Come on. Let’s get goin’.” And they did.
It was with a feeling of deep satisfaction that Florence saw this first task well begun. This first ridge, with its sparse growth of fir and balsam, could be well soaked down before the fire arrived. The battle was not won, but a good beginning had been made and Florence, as she studied the youthful faces about her, knew that her little army would stick to the last.
“There are chickens on board,” she said so they could all hear. “Twelve large, fat chickens in the boat’s refrigerator. They were meant for a Lodge. We’ll roast them all over the coals of this fire when the battle is won.” A low, hoarse cheer greeted these remarks. Then, at a word, five sturdy young pumps, each with the power of ten outboard motors, began passing water from barrel to barrel until it shot forth in a broad stream.
Fired with new hope, boys not needed at the pumps seized axes and began slashing at the taller trees and dragging them away. When at last the fire, fanned by a fresh breeze, came sweeping down the highest ridge into the narrow run, then started climbing the “last desperate hope,” that lower ridge, a thin line of grim-faced, determined boys met it half-way. Such was the influence of one girl who refused to give up!
With all the pumps manned by the lightweight boys, the powerful Katie and Florence seized axes and rushed down to add their bit. It was then that a flaming spruce tree, toppling to a fall, pinned a smoke-blackened boy beneath its branches.
“Katie! Quick!” Florence screamed. “He’ll be burned to death!”
With power born of desperation, the girls wrenched away flaming branches, then dragged the boy clear. His shirt was on fire. Florence tore the garment from him and stamped it into the damp moss. Then half dragging, half carrying the injured lad, she removed him to safety.
It was only after the danger was over that she recognized the youth she had saved. She truly did receive a shock!
“Mike! It’s you!” she exclaimed.
“Who’d y’ think it was goin’ to be?” growled Mike.
“But Mike! You helping to fight the fire?”
“I wasn’t helpin’,” Mike lied. “I was just dryin’ out me clothes.”
“Yes?” Florence turned over his right hand. It was still red from the work it had done. There were two fresh blisters there. “Yes,” she said, speaking with difficulty, “you—you were drying your clothes!”
For a moment there was silence, save for the roar and crackle of the fire blazing away where it could do no harm. As the girl watched the flames dart high, only to fall back against water-soaked trees, she knew she was safe in snatching a few moments of rest. The victory was won. The little fishery, the tiny cabins, the humble home of her friends—all were safe. The fire would creep along the ridge until it came to barren rocks and the waters of Superior. There it would flash and sputter its life away. There might be other fires on the island. There were. She caught the light of them in the distance. But Chippewa Harbor was safe!
“It wasn’t fer you that I done it!” Mike protested.
“Then why?” she demanded.
“Think yer smart, don’t y’?” was Mike’s only reply.
The truth was, Florence had unlocked the only door to Mike’s heart. With the aid of that sputtering pump, she had licked him good and plenty. And the law of physical force was the only law Mike knew anything about.
“Mike,” said Florence after a time, “what do you know about these fires being set?”
“Not a thing,” said Mike. “Say! You don’t think—”
“No! No!” She stopped him. “I don’t think anything like that. But I must find out, right away. Here, shake on it.” Her good, stout, capable hand gripped Mike’s blisters, but Mike never flinched.
True to their promise, when the Wanderer returned, Florence and Katie prepared a grand feast of roast chicken, hot biscuits and coffee for the weary young fire-fighters. None enjoyed this more than did Mike and Tony.
“When the next war comes,” Tony laughed, “you join up as Captain and we’ll be your privates!” Coming from Tony this was high praise.
“One thing sure,” Dave said, after the feast was over, “if you ever again need help from those boys you’ll get it without a murmur.”
“Chickens come high!” was Florence’s strange reply. “But I guess it’s worth it.”
Yes, chicken did come high. All those dressed birds must be replaced, and the little company’s purse was very flat. There was a worried note in Dave’s voice as he said, “Tomorrow we must return to the mainland for fuel oil. I wonder if we get it? The last bill isn’t paid yet!”
That worry was still with them as, after unloading the fishermen’s goods, they headed away across the glassy waters of Superior. But when Father Superior is in a happy mood, who can worry? “Never,” Florence thought, “was the water so smooth or the sky so blue.”
With Indian John at the wheel and Katie’s galley sending out delicious odors, the three of them, Dave, Florence and Jeanne, sat on deck looking dreamily off across the water.
“There is a phantom fisherman off the end of Edward’s Island,” Jeanne murmured, half talking to herself.
“A fisherman, but no phantom,” Dave insisted.
“It is our privilege in this life,” said Jeanne, “to have what we want, provided we tread on no one’s toes. I want a phantom fisherman, so I shall have one. You want a real fisherman. You may have him, too. Neither of us wishes any fish, so what does it matter?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Dave agreed.
“One thing is important,” Florence insisted. “Are those fires on the island being set?”
“No,” said Dave.
“But I’ve been told they were,” insisted his cousin. “Twice I’ve heard it.”
“Who told you?”
“I—I don’t know. That’s the queer part.” She went on to tell of the strange voice.
“Probably some ignorant fisherman talking nonsense,” was Dave’s verdict. “They cling to these crags trying to eke out a living until they get a little cracked in the head.”
To this, Florence would not agree. She had heard the voice. She had seen the mysterious youth and was sure she would see him again.
“Questions that interest me more are—shall we be allowed to continue carrying passengers?” said Dave, “and can we get more fuel oil on credit? Upon these answers depends our future.”
“And perhaps the future of the island,” Florence added soberly.
“Yes, even that,” Dave admitted.
“Well,” Dave laughed as, late that day, his boat tied up at Houghton, he slowly paced the dock, “we won’t have to worry about the future for a day or two. This nor’wester will keep us in port, come what will.” Just as they entered the canal, ten miles from Houghton, a wild storm had come booming in.
“Couldn’t we make a trip if we had to?” Florence asked.
“Well, if we had to, I suppose we could.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” a brusque voice interrupted.
“Why?” Dave stared. He found himself looking into the keen, gray eyes of the elderly man whom with his granddaughter, they had rescued some days before from Greenstone Ridge on Isle Royale.
“They are having a hard time on the island,” the man explained. “Chips wants more pumps and hose. There are pumps here—twenty of them—and ten thousand feet of hose. I’d like—”
“But I don’t see—” Dave broke in.
“You don’t see how that affects me,” the man laughed. “I happen to be an assistant national park commissioner; so this is my job. I am Colonel Colby.”
“Oh-o,” Dave breathed, “and you want us to make a trip to Isle Royale?”
“It is imperative. The pumps must go. The Iroquois is in port, but she is old and clumsy. She’d not be safe, but your boat—”
“She’d do all right, but—” Dave hesitated, “our passenger license expires tonight.”
“Passenger license!” The old man’s voice rose. “Who said anything about passengers? Of course,” he added, “I shall go with you, but—I,” he hesitated. “Well, you may ship me as freight,” he laughed heartily. “Anyway, I represent the Government.”
“All right. Bring on your pumps. We’ll run down for fresh fuel. Be back here in half an hour,” was the young skipper’s reply.
“One thing more,” he hesitated, “I hate to tell you this. You may think we’re whining, but I doubt if our credit for fuel is good.”
“I’ll attend to that also,” the colonel replied without a second’s hesitation.
“O.K. We’ll be with you in an hour.”
“That’s the talk!” The colonel gripped Dave’s hand for an instant, then was away.
When two hours later the Wanderer nosed her way out of the smooth water of the canal into the surging seas that swept Lake Superior, Dave caught his breath. Had he, for once, overestimated the cruising power of his stout little craft? Only time would tell. The Wanderer appeared to glory in its battle with the waters. Climbing one monstrous wave, it glided down the breaker’s slope, only to start climbing again. Great splashes of white spray were dashed against the pilothouse window. The deck was all awash; yet the Wanderer’s motors throbbed sweetly as the gallant boat forged its way ahead.
Night came. The storm increased. The black waves of night seemed more terrible than those of the day. Struggling into her little galley, Katie braced herself stiff-legged against a screwed-down table while she prepared sandwiches for the weary men.
Below deck, one of the twenty pumps, breaking its moorings, threatened to smash the others into bits. Only after many bumps and bruises was Rufus able to restore it to its proper place.
“Wi-wild night,” Dave’s words were blown down his throat as he reached gratefully for his sandwich.
“Tho-thought I saw a light,” Florence screamed.
“Sure! Sure! There it is!” Dave shouted. “Must be Passage Island. And boy, oh, boy! If it is, we’re right on our course!”
They were on their course. They had Indian John to thank for that. One peril still lay before them—the narrow, rocky entrance of Rock Harbor. Could they make it? There was a prayer in every heart as they neared the dark bulks looming out of the night.
“Little islands that guard the channel,” Dave explained, playing his ship’s light upon them. “They’re all solid rock. And you don’t see all of them. Some are just under the water. One touch on a night like this, and—
“There! There’s the gap!” he exclaimed excitedly. “It’s straight ahead of us, one marker to the right and one to the left. Thank God, the waves are striking the island squarely! We’ll ride them like a bucking broncho.
“Now!” he breathed, as a huge breaker bore them forward.
“Now!” Florence exclaimed, as a second, larger than the first, broke with a hiss under the Wanderer’s prow.
“And now!” shouted the gray-haired colonel, as the stout little craft glided off the last wave to the calm of Rock Harbor. “That—that was marvelous!” He gripped Florence and Dave by the hands. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. And now,” he added quietly, “now for Chips. He’ll be waiting.”
Chips was waiting, and it was the privilege of the young navigators to witness his marvelous efficiency. With the smoothness of clockwork, his men marched aboard the boat, thrust rope-lashed poles beneath each pump, then disappeared into the night.
“That’ll lick the fire,” Chips murmured. “Besides, the wind’s shifting, and there’s the smell of rain in the air.”
“There are good beds down at the lodge at the other end of the harbor,” the gray-haired colonel turned to the Wanderer’s crew. “You all need some real rest. It’s smooth going all the way. What do you say we go down and tie up there for twenty-four hours?”
“That,” exclaimed Florence, “would be keen!”
“And so say we all,” Dave echoed.
“O.K.,” he exclaimed, “John, you know this channel. Suppose you take the wheel.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Indian John saluted.
“And now, how about a few words over a cup of coffee?” suggested the colonel.
It was a very friendly chat they had with the colonel, as, with the light of the moon streaming in at their window, they sat contentedly listening to the distant roar of dashing waves.
Without seeming to pry into their affairs, the gray-haired man found out just how matters stood with them.
“You’ve been doing a grand work,” he rumbled at last. “In a most splendid spirit. Before I left I told Addison, the fuel man you know, to supply all your needs. I shall stand back of you in this.”
“Oh, that—that’s grand!” Florence choked a little.
“I don’t know how we can thank you, sir!” Dave said huskily.
“You don’t need to. This is perhaps but the beginning. I hope we have much better things in store for you.”
“The little we have done has been for the good of the kindly people of the island,” said Florence.
“And for the good of all,” added the colonel. “You must not forget that Isle Royale is to be a national park. That it is to belong to all the people of America. When you save a square mile of that virgin beauty you are saving it for all the American people.
“By the way,” he said after a moment’s silence, “That man with the speed boat doesn’t like you very well, does he? I suppose you know the reason why.”
“No,” was Florence’s quick reply, “we have wondered about him ever since we brought him to the island and he seemed ready to put us in chains because we insisted on helping to save the camp at Siskowit.”
“He’s threatened to have our license revoked,” Dave put in. “It all seems a bit fantastic. We really never did anything to him.”
“No, probably not,” the colonel agreed. “But your grandfather did and it is his boat you are operating, I am told.”
“Grandfather! Grandfather?” they exclaimed. “He never wronged anyone.”
“He never did,” the colonel agreed, “but he got in bad by doing right. This man who has chosen you for an enemy was once running a boat contrary to regulations, carrying many more passengers than the law allows, endangering people’s lives. The authorities asked your grandfather about it. Being the sort of man who hates lies, he told the truth.”
“Good for Granddad!” Florence exclaimed.
“Right,” the gray-haired man agreed. “For all that, he made himself a lifetime enemy. But,” he added, “you need not worry further about him. I shall see that he is properly taken care of.
“Look!” he exclaimed springing to the window, “we are at Snug Harbor—our night of storm is over. I shall arrange at once for your accommodations at the Lodge.”
“We are to have a hot bath and sleep between clean, white sheets,” Florence whispered to Jeanne. “How perfectly grand!”