“And neither is protected from storms?”
“I’ll say not,” the man laughed hoarsely. “Blake’s Point reaches out into Lake Superior like a pointing finger. Five Foot is a clean mile from anywhere.”
“Would it do any good to go out and look for them?” Dave asked.
“In this fog?” the man laughed again. “Not a bit. Never find them.
“Oh, they’re probably O.K.,” he consoled. “They’re a sturdy pair. They’d make a point on one of the small islands. Plenty of driftwood everywhere. With a good fire and moss for a bed they’ll get on very well.”
“And there are narrow channels between the small islands,” said Dave. “Storms don’t hit there. They may come sneaking in along the shore any time.”
Loaded with supplies, the Iroquois arrived alongside the Wanderer at dusk. Captain Frey was on board.
“Some of these supplies,” he said, “go to Florence Bay. That’s about twenty-five miles up the north shore. The Iroquois can’t get in there. We have a hundred fire-fighters there. They’ve been living on salt pork and beans for two days. How about going there tonight?” he asked Dave.
“We—we can do it,” was Dave’s prompt response. He was thinking of Florence and Katie. But his first duty was to those hungry men.
“If those girls don’t show up by dawn,” he said to the guide, “get out your boat and look them up. I’ll stand the expense.”