Far back in the bay, on a narrow point among the pines and cedars, was their temporary home. A log cabin it was, with a broad fireplace at its back, with heavily cushioned rustic chairs in every corner, and with such an air of freshness, brightness and peace hovering over it as is found only where sky, water and forest meet in the northland.
Thinking of all this, Florence, too, had fallen into a deep reverie when, with the suddenness of a world’s end, catastrophe befell them.
With a rush and a roar, a demon of speed sprang at them.
“The speed boat!” she screamed in Jeanne’s ear. “Jump!”
The words were not out of her mouth when, with a swirling swing, she was lost in a mountain of foam. Their rowboat toppled over, casting them into the chilling water of the bay.
At once Florence was on the surface, swimming strongly.
“But what of Jeanne? She does not swim. I must save her.” These were the thoughts uppermost in her mind when a blonde head bobbed up close beside her.
Her hand flew out. It grasped something, the girl’s cape. It was loose. It came away. Jeanne began to sink. One more desperate effort and Florence had her, first by the hair, then by an arm.
“Jeanne!” she panted. “Jeanne! Get hold of my blouse and cling tight!”
The frightened French girl obeyed.