Laughing low, she once more resumed her walk on the bridge. This time her thoughts dwelt upon things very near at hand. “This wreck,” she was thinking, “this old Pilgrim—is it a safe place to be?
“It—it just has to be!” she exclaimed after a moment’s reflection. “It’s such a grand place for the summer. Broad deck, sloping a little, but not too terribly much. Cabins without number, a swimming pool that once was a dining hall. Who could ask for more? And yet—” her brow wrinkled. The little breezes that blew across the water seemed to whisper to her of danger.
At last, shaking herself free from all those thoughts, she went down to her cabin and was soon fast asleep.
CHAPTER IX
THE CALL OF THE GYPSIES
The following day was bright and clear. The waters of Old Superior were as blue as the sky. Even the wreck took on a scrubbed and smiling appearance.
“As if we were all prepared to shove off for one more voyage,” Jeanne said with a merry laugh.
As soon as the sun had dried the deck, Jeanne and Greta spread blankets and, stretching themselves out like lazy cats, prepared for a glorious sun bath.
It was a drowsy, dreamy day. In the distance a dark spot against the skyline was Passage Island where on stormy nights a search-light, a hoarse-hooting fog horn and a whispering radio warned ships of danger.
All manner of ships pass between Isle Royale and Passage Island. They were passing now, slowly and, Jeanne thought, almost mournfully. First came a dark old freighter with cabins fore and aft, then a tugboat towing a flat scow with a tall derrick upon it, and after these, all painted white and with many flags flying, an excursion boat. And then, reared over on one side and scooting along before the wind, a sailboat.
Just to lie in the sun and watch this procession was life enough for Jeanne and Greta. Not so Florence. She was for action. Dizzy needed fish. She would row over to the shoals by Blake’s Point. There she would troll for trout.