Encouraged by these reinforcements, the loyal band of camp workers, toiling with ax and shovel, redoubled their efforts.
“Will we make it?” Florence asked anxiously.
“I hope so,” was Captain Frey’s reply. “If the fire gets by us here, the whole island may go. Think what that means! A forty-mile long island covered with virgin timber, last stand of primeval beauty, future playground of thousands!”
“Yes,” Florence agreed, “it does mean a great deal.” Then, and for weeks to come, she forgot her own disappointments, her lost hopes, whenever she thought of this larger cause which meant so much to many.
For two long hours, with the heat at times growing all but unbearable, with the peril of a gasoline explosion ever threatening, the boat’s pump chugged on.
There came a time at last, however, when the weary fighters leaned on shovel handles and watched the flames fade. Then there rose a glad shout: “The wind! The wind! It’s changed. It will drive the fire into the bay!”
This was true. The wind had changed. But Dave’s brow wrinkled. He and Florence were for the moment on shore. “Come on,” he exclaimed. “We’ve got to get the boat out of the bay. In a half-hour that fire will be dangerously close to the boat and our gasoline. It’s swung round their camp—that’s safe. But it’s coming our way with the wind up. Our pump won’t stop it. In an hour—”
He did not finish. Instead, he rowed swiftly across to the Wanderer.
“Rufus!” he called. “Cut off the pump. Their battle’s won. Pull in the hose. We’ll back out of here in a jiffy and be away.”
“Thanks. Thanks more than we can say,” Captain Frey shouted hoarsely from the shore.