And what of Florence? For one thing, she had made a marvelous discovery.
After leaving her companion, she had wandered for two hours along Greenstone Ridge. Here she paused to examine the surface of a greenish wall of rock. There she drew a chisel and small hammer from her knickers’ pocket to drill away on a spot of green. And now, with no thought of rock or greenstone treasure, head down, deep in meditation, she wandered along some moose trail.
On Isle Royale moose trails are everywhere, so too are wild moose. Protected by law from murderous hunters, they wander at will from shore to shore.
This girl, who appeared so much a part of this rugged island, knew she might meet a moose at any turn, yet she was not afraid.
It was during one of these periods of deep thought that she struck her foot against some solid object and all but fell forward on her face.
“What—what was that?” She turned about. “Only a rock. And—and yet—”
She bent over to look more closely. An exclamation of joy escaped her lips.
“A hammer! An Indian hammer!”
At once she was down on her knees tearing away at the thick moss that on Isle Royale hides many a secret.
That the history of this interesting island goes far back of the time when the first white trader saw it, she knew right well.