“But tell me now—” His voice took on an eager note. “Tell me about that man.”
Florence told him all she knew. He was, she felt quite certain, the man who had intended murdering Old Uncle Ned, the veteran moose, and the man who had fought with her that battle of oars. She trembled now as she thought what might have happened had not these Conservation men happened along.
“God seems to be keeping an eye on us,” she was to say to Jeanne some time later. And Jeanne was to reply reverently, “He notes the sparrow’s fall.”
“Excuse me,” the Conservation man said when the story was done. “My name is Mell. As man to man, I’d like to shake your hand. The way you saved the old moose was keen. You’re the right sort. I—I’ll get you a job on our force.” He shook her hand warmly.
“But this fellow—” his brow wrinkled. “We’ll have to look after him. He’s a head hunter, beyond a doubt. Fellow can get good money for a fine pair of moose antlers. These rascals come over here and kill our best friends of the wildwood, just for a few sordid dollars. Watch us go after him!”
Leaping into his boat, he was away.
“He’s—he’s all right.” Florence was enthusiastic. “Question is, shall we camp here or try a return trip to the ship?” For a moment all thoughts of the treasure hunt were forgotten.
“Moon will be out by ten o’clock,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Be safer on the water then. We’ll make a fire and have something to eat.”
Their evening lunch over, the girls curled up side by side with the wall of their small tent at their back and the glowing fire before them. All about them was blackness. Not a gleam came from the surface of dark waters. Not a break appeared in the wall of bottle-green that was the forest at their back. For all this, they were not afraid. Swen’s rifle lay across Florence’s knees. Their ears were keen. No intruder could slip upon them unannounced.
“Gold!” Greta whispered. “We found a tiny bit. I wonder if there can be much more.”