This, for two reasons, they did not do. Half the would-be celebrators were at once dispatched to a point where the fire still threatened to outflank them, and at the same time a slim, powerful motor-boat, Patrol Boat No. 1, rounded the point.
“Yo-ho there!” cried the skipper. “What are you lying here for?”
“Been helping a little,” Dave replied modestly. “Now we’re on the rocks.”
“On hard?” the skipper asked.
“Not very.”
“Good! We’ll have you off in a twinkle. Stand by to take a rope.”
The rope was thrown and attached to the Wanderer’s stern. The motors of the patrol boat roared, and the grounded craft moved slowly backward off the rocks.
“Ahoy there!” Dave shouted joyously. “We’ll be all right now. Thanks a lot.”
The Wanderer had lost a little paint from her bottom, that was all, and as the boat’s prow headed for Chippewa Harbor, Florence sat down for a breathing spell before going below to prepare the evening meal. The look on her face was a sober one.
“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” she said aloud.