Red said never a word. In response to her request he hurried. Five minutes had not passed when their canoe bumped on the other shore. They skirted the boat house, rounded a long low cabin and at last reached a door.
The door, which was fastened, yielded to Red’s sturdy shoulder. Then they were inside.
“Oh-o!” the girl breathed. “How warm it seems! As if there were a fire.”
“There will be soon.”
Red flashed his torch about the room. A large fireplace, built of channel rocks, was just before him. As if they had been expected, the fire was laid, and a box of safety matches lay on the rustic mantel.
A match flared, a slow yellow flame mounted higher and higher and filled the room with light.
“Oh!” the girl cried suddenly. “You are the Red Rover? I—I’m glad!”
“That’s what they call me.” Red did not smile. “I—I’m sorry.”
“Sorry! Why are you sorry?”
“Sorry that you know. I’d rather be plain Red Rodgers who works in a steel mill and has ambitions of his own to become a foreman or a steel tester, or something like that.”