“Jeanne! Greta!” the girl screamed. “Wake up! I’ve caught a wolf!”
“Wake up yourself,” Jeanne replied dreamily. “You are walking in your sleep. You let that fish free long ago.”
“No! No!” Florence, quite beside herself, protested. “Get up! Quick! Quick! I’ve caught a wolf. A real wolf of the forest!”
At the same time she was saying to herself, “Whatever am I to do?”
CHAPTER VII
THE LAST PASSENGERS
Florence had the wolf by the tail, there could be no doubt about that. The three-pronged hook of her trolling spoon was securely entangled in that bushy mat of hair. The line that held the spoon was strong. What was she to do next?
The aged moose, awakened to his peril by the sound of her voice, threw his head about, took one startled look, then grunting prodigiously, went swimming for the other shore.
Turning angrily, the wolf began snapping at the hook. “Won’t do to let him take more line,” the girl told herself. “Got to give the poor old moose a chance.”
At that moment Greta rolled from beneath the boat, leaped to her feet to stand staring, wild eyed, at the scene before her.
“Florence! It’s a wolf!” she cried.