“O.K.,” was the prompt response, “you can depend on me.”
“I know that,” Dave replied heartily.
An hour later, well loaded with supplies, the Wanderer stole out into the night. From time to time as they moved slowly down the channel between small islands and at last around Blake’s point, they gave long blasts on their siren. The only response was the scream of a seagull or the wail of the wind.
The pitching of the boat made rest impossible, so, encased in sweaters, blankets and a huge oilskin coat, Jeanne sat huddled on deck, feeling the cold damp of spray on her cheeks, and wondering about the fate of her two good pals.
Shortly after midnight, guided by the light of a forest fire, they slipped into a narrow bay, there to be given an uproarious welcome by a hundred hungry men.
“We’ll wait the night out here,” was Dave’s decision. “There are supplies for McCargoe’s Cove on board. We’ll drop them off on the way back. And you—” there was an extra note of friendliness in his voice as he spoke to the little French girl, “you better get some sleep.”
Jeanne’s beauty-rest that night was a short one. However, her hours of dreaming in the sun the previous day stood her in good stead and she was up with the sun. Early as it was she found the Wanderer in motion.
After serving the crew with coffee and hot cakes, she came on deck to watch the shore line slipping by.
It was still early when the boat began sliding into McCargoe’s Cove. At the entrance of this cove was one of the most entrancing little islands Jeanne had ever seen.
“Oh, Dave!” she exclaimed. “Please drop me off in the dory and let me visit that island until you come back this way!”