“Oh! I suppose I shouldn’t vent it on Olive’s kith and kin,” she told herself, looking out through a blur at the lately launched vessel which the tugboat was now taking in tow for her perilous trip round to the seaport, when, if the hoary old tide was not obliging, a “tin fish” might be fired at her, or a bomb whip-sawed up under her new keel, to blow up some thirty thousand dollars’ worth of vessel--and the labor of months.
“What a contrary little cat--an utter simpleton--that Atlas boy must think me! A nice impression I’ve given him of our Camp Fire Group! Well! I can--can--undo some of it, later on. Watch him--watch him open his eyes when he sees me light a fire with rubbing sticks, out there on the middle of the dunes, as the Indians did long ago, I suppose, when they had that huge clam-bake. I wish I could show him that very last honor-bead, too, red with a white square on it, like the Scouts’ signal-flags--a local honor for signaling, for understanding wigwag--sending a message with Morse code or semaphore. I’ll wager he couldn’t do it, for all he held up shipping! No, sir!”
The Flame’s lip was hotly quivering to match the storm water in her eyes, as she sent these thoughts after the new hull, now being towed down the river.
One and all, the girls waved a parting salute, made the hand-sign of fire to win her luck--that baby vessel.
The hand-sign was in Sesooā’s heart. Not by any stereotyped thanks for the vital spark still in her, paid for by the spinning globe which Atlas was carrying home on his head--although, of course, these must be offered, verbal or written--but by the magic of thunder-bird or “hand-hold,” bow, drill, fire-board and tinder, winning the boon of fire from dead wood, would she retrieve the honor of her Camp Fire, uphold the other side of her not scarred by wilfulness and petty mockery through a fantastic jealousy on Iver’s behalf.
Never--never before had Firemaking Outfit such a contract to fill--or the dunes such a vindication to witness!
CHAPTER XV
SEEKING THE SPARK
Alas! for vindication. Alas! for the invisible practical joker which seems sometimes to dog our steps in life and steal our trick when we least expect it.
A maiden knelt upon the white sands out at the wild heart of the sand-dunes, here purple with the shading blossoms of pea-vines, lace-trimmed with everlastings, or raggedly plumed with rank beach-grass and prickly barb-weed.