At that instant the intruder broke from the head waiter’s grasp and there he stood, the boy in the crimson sweater.
Tim O’Hara sized up the situation at a glance. Next instant he was on his feet, “Ladies and gentlemen.” There was a thrill in his voice. “I have always insisted that we bring them in from the air. Now here is visible proof. Less than an hour ago Miss Huyler broadcast an appeal. It was to the boy in the crimson sweater. And now here he is.”
Turning to the boy he said, “Whoever you are and whatever your name, you are a welcome guest at our party.” At that he ushered him to a place at Florence’s side.
The boy’s story was soon told. He had been sent to the island by the conservation editor of a New York magazine. His task had been to determine, as far as possible, how many wild moose were on the island. Some seventy or more had been taken from the island. Were there still hundreds or thousands? All those interested in wild life wanted to know.
“When the fires started,” he went on, “I thought of volunteering as a fire-fighter. But I had to have the count of moose for the next issue of the magazine. I couldn’t back out on the job I’d been sent to do. So I continued to count moose.
“At last,” he hesitated, “well, you know how it is. You sometimes feel things.”
“Yes,” Florence agreed, “and sometimes feel them wrong.”
“But this time I felt them right.” He laughed. “I was suspected of doing something terrible. I was suspected of setting fires. How horrible! I setting fires! I who have always worshipped trees as God’s first temples?”
“But how were we to know?” Florence exclaimed. “We—”
“You couldn’t know,” the boy broke in. “Nor could you help my being angry.