Roy J. Snell

“ Florence exclaimed, as she watched one band of weary smoke-choked fighters fall back only to be replaced by fresh shock troops, “to think that those boys are willing to risk and endure so much to save us and our boat! What does it matter now if we never make a dollar from this summer’s work?”
There were times in that hour of fire fighting when the battle seemed lost; when tall spruce trees, caught in the flames, blazed toward the sky; when the heat burned the faces of the fighters and tar oozed up from the Wanderer’s deck. ”

“ Scarcely had she whispered this last word when the orchestra began the low rhythmic notes of a gypsy song she knew all too well, and at once a slim, spirit-like figure, clad in a gown that shone like silver in the moonlight, glided out upon the deck and began to dance.
“Jeanne!” The sound that escaped Florence’s lips was almost a cry. “Petite Jeanne! It can be no one else. No one can do those gypsy dances so divinely.” ”

“ 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?” ”

“ 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. ”

“ The girl in red drew her fingers across all the chords in her harp. The little dark-eyed Spaniard on a stool thrummed his guitar, the big man with a bass viol drew his bow, the horns, drums, the violins joined in with a crashing crescendo. In the strange silence that followed a voice said, “The Adventurers’ Club is on the air, coast to coast.”
Once again Florence watched the circling of that second hand. At exactly seven twenty-seven she was to go on the air. Never had that hand raced so madly. Her heart kept time to its racing. At last here was a nod from Tim O’Hara. ”

“ Close beside her, as she stood on the dock telling of the fire, was a slender woman—a fisherman’s wife—listening intently. In her arms she held a child. A second child tugged at her skirts. Her all, Florence knew well, was on Isle Royale. Across the narrow bay was her spotless cabin and before the cabin a neat fish house and many nets on reels. She and her husband had toiled hard to build their happy home, and now, if the fire came, all would be lost.
Standing on the other side of her, leaning on a cane, was a man well past eighty. ”

“ 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!” ”

“ 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. ”

“ The dress rehearsal thrilled her to the very tips of her toes. As the notes of the orchestra died away and she took her place before the “mike,” she seemed to feel the expectant hush of a real audience and from the far-flung prairies and the blue waters of her own beloved midwest a breath seemed to fan her cheek. For the moment, forgetting her little plot with the orchestra director, she went through her part as in a dream. Almost she expected a boy to step out from among those empty seats and say, “I am the boy in the crimson sweater.” ”

“ He was silenced at once, but Florence, wakened from her dreams, did not fall asleep for some time.
[96]
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? ”

“ 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? ”

“ Florence was large, strong, fearless. A marvelous swimmer and a grand athlete, she had little to fear on land or water. And yet, as her eyes swept the deck of the Wanderer, the sixty-foot motor-boat on which she rode, a troubled look came into her fine blue eyes. Nor were those low, circling clouds the cause of her worry. She and her cousin Dave, quite as courageous and venturesome as she, had embarked upon an enterprise that promised to be a failure.
“Grandfather will lose his money. He can’t afford to lose, and it’s not all our fault,” she told herself a little bitterly. ”

“ 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. ”

“ But Florence was not satisfied. Had she not been told the fires were being set? And had she not seen the youth with the crimson sweater? Did some imp whisper, “Yes, and you are to see him again—very soon. No good will come of that, either.” Well, perhaps not. Who can say?
“There’s grand fishing here at the island,” said a man in high boots and red plaid shirt. “I row a heavy boat three hundred miles every summer, trolling for lake trout. It reduces my waistline two inches.”
“I am always going to row a heavy boat three hundred miles,” drawled a large, fat man, “next year!” Everyone laughed. ”

“ 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.”
[90]
“How strange!” said Jeanne, charmed with this note of mystery.
“Probably trolling for lake trout,” said the practical Dave. ”

“ It was true that once a boat docked anywhere on this friendly island, the cottagers and lodge guests swarmed aboard. They were always welcome. But she was not dressed for such an occasion. All her party clothes were on shore. She looked at her smoke-browned slacks, at her blouse torn at the sleeve, then murmured with a low laugh, “Invitation to the dance. But not for me. I’ll be a spectator. They won’t even know I am here.”
It was a large white yacht that at last tied up at the dock. ”

“ 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.” ”

“ 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.” ”

“ Florence sighed. “Well, it’s one grand vacation.”
“What about the fire at Siskowit?” Cottagers, fishermen, lodge people and their guests swarmed the dock at Rock Harbor on the arrival of the Wanderer.
“We licked it,” Dave reassured them.
“Yes, you did,” exclaimed a skeptical old-timer. “You don’t lick a fire on this island in that short time.”
“That’s right,” said another. “It creeps along on the ground.”
“Yes, and under the ground,” added a third. “All our soil is of vegetable origin. Dry as it is here, everything but the rocks burn. I’ve seen holes burned four feet deep.” ”

“ 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. ”

“ She had lost all trace of the trail, was surrounded by smoke and flames and knew of no certain way of escape. The only answer to such a problem was retreat.
But which way? Up the ridge perhaps. She resolved to try this. The wall of rock was all but perpendicular. At times she was obliged to find a toe hold in a crack between rocks, then to grasp the root of a tree that, like herself, clung precariously, then drag herself up. Always there was the danger of a fall. A broken leg might mean a terrible death by fire. ”

“ 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. ”

“ To her surprise, Florence found herself going through her act the second time like a seasoned actor. As her voice went out over the air, no one listening in would have guessed that she was just another girl from the tall timber of Isle Royale.
When Jeanne had repeated her dance of the flames and the curtain was run down for the last time, the two girls said goodbye to that jolly, friendly company and to their new friend in the red sweater. After that they strolled out to the brightly lit streets of New York at night.
“Look at the people,” Florence exclaimed. ”

“ 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.
[116]
Taking advantage of the situation, Florence exclaimed, “Boys, we have pumps. You all have homes. ”

“ Jeanne tossed her fair head. “Yes, these are friends. They are very kind indeed. They like me to dance so they bring me with them.
“Good people they are, too,” she added, more quietly. “Some are very famous. One writes books, one paints pictures of great rocks, one goes to cold, cold, countries to explore and one he is very rich.
“But you!” she exclaimed, “You are my friend of many, many days. It is in the lines of our hands, it is written in the stars, that we shall be together. Always and always!” Her voice rose.
“All—all right,” Florence surrendered. “Have you any clothes?” ”