“For you?” The girl’s eyes opened wide.
“Absolutely.” Sandy grinned. “You see, they’re trapping moose on Isle Royale, and—”
“Isle Royale!” Florence exclaimed. “I’ve been there, spent a whole summer there. It’s marvelous!”
“Tell me about it.” Sandy leaned forward eagerly.
“Oh—” Florence closed her eyes for a space of seconds. “It—why it’s wild and beautiful. It’s a big island, forty miles long. It’s all rocks and forest primeval. No timber has ever been cut there. And there are narrow bays running back two miles where, early in summer, marvelous big lake trout lurk. You put a spoon hook on your line and go trolling. You just row and row. You gaze at the glorious green of birch and balsam, spruce and fir; you watch the fleecy clouds, you feel the lift and fall of your small boat, and think how wonderful it is just to live, when Zing! something sets your reel spinning. Is it a rock? You grab your pole and begin reeling in. No! It moves, it wobbles. It is a fish.
“Ten yards, twenty, thirty, forty you reel in. There he is! What a beauty—a ten pounder. You play him, let out line, reel in, let out, reel in. Then you whisper, ‘Now!’ You reel in fast, you reach out and up, and there he is thrashing about in the bottom of your boat. Oh, Sandy! You’ll love it! Wish I could go. Next summer are you going?”
“Next week, most likely.”
“Next week! Why, it’s all frozen over. There are no boats going there now.”
“No boats, but we’ll take a plane, land on skiis. You see,” Sandy explained, “our nature editor has gone south. Now this moose-trapping business has come up and our paper wants a story. The thing has been dumped in my lap. I’ll probably have to go.”
“Oh!” The big girl’s face was a study. She loved the wide out-of-doors and all wild, free places. Isle Royale must be glorious in winter. “Wish I could go along! But I—I can’t.”