“Yes, and yet—” Florence sighed. “Well, it’s one grand vacation.”
“What about the fire at Siskowit?” Cottagers, fishermen, lodge people and their guests swarmed the dock at Rock Harbor on the arrival of the Wanderer.
“We licked it,” Dave reassured them.
“Yes, you did,” exclaimed a skeptical old-timer. “You don’t lick a fire on this island in that short time.”
“That’s right,” said another. “It creeps along on the ground.”
“Yes, and under the ground,” added a third. “All our soil is of vegetable origin. Dry as it is here, everything but the rocks burn. I’ve seen holes burned four feet deep.”
“Four feet!” Dave stared.
“No kiddin’,” the man insisted. “Question is, what’s going to be done about it? This island is a national park. Are a pack of boys going to be allowed to burn it up?”
“I take it,” said Dave soberly, “that you are referring to the camp boys at Siskowit.”
“Exactly,” said the man.