Dawn came on the barren rock that had saved Florence and Katie from the storm. They were awakened by wild screams. These were uttered by a host of angry gulls demanding to know who had invaded their favorite roosting place during the night.
Breakfast of fish and gull’s eggs, a few bright hours of watching the waves lose their threat, then once more they were on the water.
Two hours of hard, double rowing against the wind, a line out for trout and two catches—one a beauty—then they were entering the Passage Island harbor they had missed before.
Exclaimed over and welcomed by the lighthouse keeper’s smiling wife, they were fed on roast beef and baked potatoes and brown gravy, plied with questions, and at last taken aboard a neat little motor craft that carried them back to Tobin’s Harbor and their astonished friend who had all but given them up as lost.
“See!” exclaimed Katie, true to her promise. “We have been fishing. And just look what we caught. A whopper!”
A whopper indeed it was—thirty-seven pounds by the scales—easily the best fish of the season. Was Florence proud? No end of it. There was, however, little time for strutting. A few moments of triumph and her insistent mind was demanding, “What of the future?”
“Where is the Wanderer?” she asked.
“Somewhere on the north shore,” was the answer. “Make yourself comfortable. They should be back before dark.”
In two big chairs before a driftwood fire the girls dozed the hours away. And so ended one more happy adventure that might not have been so happy after all, had it not been for Lady Luck’s kindness and Katie’s good, strong arms.