He it had been, who pointed out to them what a wonderful summer home the wreck might become. For a very little pay he had assisted them in fitting up their rooms. He had rented them a boat and had thrown in much equipment besides.
“He’s a fine boy,” Florence repeated. “When hard times came he was planning to enter college. Now—”
“Now if we only could help him!” Jeanne put in eagerly. “He might go!”
“They live in a lighthouse,” Greta said, “he and his people do. He told me.”
“How romantic!” Jeanne hugged her knees. “We should see him in his lighthouse tower.”
“But most of all I wish we could help him,” Florence said. “All we need—” she prodded the ground with a sharp stick. “All we need is a barrel of gold. Greta wants a fine music teacher. I’d love to travel. Swen wants a boat for his people. And you, Jeanne, what is it you want?”
“I?” Jeanne laughed. “Only happiness for all my good friends.”
“A barrel of gold,” Florence repeated dreamily. “And perhaps it is right beneath us, in this very soil.”
“Beneath us?” Greta stared.
“Why not? A very small barrel, even a tiny keg. This spot, the only level ground on the shores of this bay, has been a camping ground for countless generations. The Indians came to Isle Royale to pound out native copper from the rocks. They built their campfires right here. Swen says if you dig down you will find the remains of those campfires still.”