“It doesn’t look like a shanty,” said Florence as they approached it. “Looks like a tall box.”
“That’s about all it is. Four sides and a roof. Three feet square. Just a protection from wind and snow while you fish.
“But oh, good old Daddy Johnson, if you see us now,” she murmured, talking to the sky, “you know we need your fish shanty a heap worse than you ever did!
“Here’s the door,” she said a moment later. “Walk right in and make yourself at home.”
Inside this curious box-like affair, which is moved so easily over the ice during the winter fishing, there was only standing room for two.
But how warm it seemed! “As if there were a fire.” Florence hugged Tillie for very joy. Then she thanked the Creator of all for this miraculous deliverance.
“It’s going to be hard,” she told herself, as she thought of standing there all night, “but we’ll make it. And to-morrow we will improve our condition.
“Do boats pass this island?” she asked.
“Only very far away.”
“Could they see a signal flag of distress?”