“Oh!” Florence exclaimed, as, starting forward, she stumbled over some solid object and fell flat.
“Are—are you hurt?” Katie bent over her.
“No. I—I fell over something, Katie! It’s a driftwood log! We can use it for a roller. That makes it easy.”
So it did, in more ways than one. Having rolled the boat forward on the log, they fumbled in the prow of the boat for a fire-fighter’s hatchet they knew was there. They hacked at the log until there were dry chips aplenty.
Then Katie said, “We’ll tip over the boat. We’ll use part of the log to prop it up. This makes a house.” There was a note of pure joy in her voice. “I have matches in the pocket of my boot. They are always there. We shall have such a fine fire.”
Such a fine fire as it was, too. To Florence, whose teeth would not cease chattering, it seemed the jolliest fire in the world.
The north shore of Isle Royale is strewn with smooth, eight-foot pulpwood logs that have escaped from booms in Canada and, drifting across, have lodged on those shores. From the crevices of their rock Katie and Florence managed to gather nine of these dry logs. Soon four were blazing brightly.
Hidden from the wind by their over-turned boat, warmed by the fire, the girls managed to struggle from their soaked outer garments and prop them on sticks before the fire.
For a full hour they lay there before the blazing logs. Soaking in the cheering heat and dreaming, half asleep, they all but forgot that this spot was far from their snug floating home, the Wanderer, and Isle Royale with all its problems.
When Florence at last sat up to stretch herself and stir up the fire, she exclaimed, “Katie, I’m hungry. Seems to me I remember something about a meal we were to eat on the rocks after the fishing was done.”