“Ah yes,” Florence thought with a sigh, “how much of all our lives is made of dreams. And how very cold and lonely we would be without them.”
This mood passed quickly. “Jeanne,” she exclaimed, as a clock caught her eye, “we must have lunch and get back to that office!”
“Fried oysters!” said Jeanne as they seated themselves at a bright green table. “Shoestring potatoes, coffee and lemon pie. Why not? This is New York.”
Fried oysters it was and all the rest. Then a taxi whisked them away to Tim O’Hara.
“Now,” Tim said to Florence, as he leaned back in his chair to close his eyes, “tell me all about it in greater detail.”
“New—New York?” she stammered. “It—it’s grand!”
“Not New York.” His eyes flew open. “Tell me about Isle Royale.” His eyes closed again.
Florence did tell him. Told him in her own dramatic manner. From time to time he interrupted her to exclaim, “That was a close one—That’s grand—Just grand—You mean you were trapped by the fire? They flew over you and dropped the dog? A moose went after the dog? You heard him ki-yi? Say! That’s a grand story!” At this his eyes popped wide open.
“But this boy in the crimson sweater,” his eyes closed again. “Tell me about him.”
“He—he disappeared.” Florence hesitated. “I wish we could find him. He put up such a wonderful fight for that beautiful little island. He wasn’t the firebug. Probably there wasn’t any firebug. He knows we suspected him. I—I wish we could find him.”