“I knew it!” Mike broke into a roar of laughter. “It’s Tony. My Tony. Didn’t I tell you? You can’t burn up a Dago like him!”
Unashamed the two boys embraced each other. A moment later, with Plumdum yip-yipping his delight at their heels, the three of them danced a jig atop a great, flat rock.
Once more Mike went into the lead by declaring, “We’d better scram.”
And scram they did. Following the ridge until they were well beyond the fire line, they came at last upon an ancient trail leading down. Turning they went racing down this trail at a speed that must have spelled disaster to a less hardy trio.
Fifteen minutes later they burst out upon the shores of silent waters.
“Good old Rock Harbor,” Florence breathed, almost as a prayer of thanksgiving.
On the dock at the head of that same harbor a half hour later Jeanne sat in the depths of despair. Florence was gone. Plumdum was gone. What could she do?
Of a sudden, from the distance she caught a familiar sound, the shrill barking of a small dog.
“Plumdum!” she exclaimed springing to her feet. “It must be. There is no other such dog on the island.”
It was a wild looking Jeanne who burst through the brush to greet her lost friends a short time later. Her dress was torn, her hair was flying wild, but her eyes shone with a glorious light.