Then, with the suddenness of a blow on the head, both girls awoke to the startling fact that during the battle their little world had vanished. Gone was the spot of green among the blue that is Passage Island, gone Blake’s Point and Edward’s Island. There was no land, only black threatening skies and blacker water. Clouds and fog had blotted out everything. Stealing up from behind Isle Royale, one of Superior’s sudden storms was racing down upon them. Katie courageously gripped her oars. But which way? Who could tell? In vain their eyes scoured the surface of the waters for the Lone Fisherman. He was not to be seen. Man or phantom, he had vanished.
“It’s a grand fish,” said Katie, striving in vain to keep the tremble out of her voice.
“Yes,” Florence thought, “it is a wonderful fish, but at what cost!”
It was a sober pair that faced the immediate future. Low-lying clouds had blotted out every trace of land. They were a mile from anywhere. Which way was land? How were they to know? Two hours before the wind had been off-shore. If they now headed into the wind, would they reach the island? Lake Superior winds change on a moment’s notice. If land did lie off there to windward, could they reach it? Every moment saw the gale increasing. White-caps were appearing.
Resolutely Katie headed into the wind and began rowing. There was, on the sturdy girl’s face at that moment, a look of such dogged determination as Florence had never seen there before.
“I got her into this,” she thought soberly. “It was wrong to come.”
And yet, had it been wrong? It was their day off. They had wanted a good time. They had had it, too. No one could deny that. Yet they had been—well, perhaps one might say rash, impulsive. Did impulse ever have any rightful place in one’s life? She wondered and could not answer. Surely life would be dull if everyone plodded straight on always doing the sure, safe thing. No vim nor sparkle to life. And yet—
Suddenly she realized that this was not a time for thought but for action. Extra oars lay in the bottom of the boat. Seizing these she set them in place, then waited until she had caught the rhythmic swing of Katie’s rowing. After that for a full quarter hour the creak of oars, the whistle of wind and the low swish of mounting waves were all that disturbed the silence of those black waters.
Suddenly Florence felt a hand on her shoulder. “Stop rowing,” said Katie.
“Why? What—”