“It would,” Dave said, “if anyone wanted to go to the island, but this fire will scare them away. Besides—” he hesitated.
“Besides what?” Florence demanded.
“Nothing much,” Dave looked away, “only, do you remember that big man who was angry because we went into Siskowit?”
“Yes, what—”
“I met him on the street today. He said, ‘I hear you’ve only a sixty-day temporary permit.’ I said, ‘They’ll renew it,’ and he said, ‘Oh, yeah? That’s what you think!’”
“And now you don’t think you’ll get it?” Florence asked soberly.
“I don’t know what to think,” Dave replied. “One thing’s sure, if they don’t renew it, we’re sunk.”
The moment they arrived at Houghton, Florence wrote her grandfather.
“We’ve been betrayed. We’ve been led into an unwise investment, and it was your money. Even in good times there are few passengers to the island. Now there is a fire, and no one will come. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. There isn’t a chance that we shall more than break even. Of course, with this threat of fire there is opportunity for service. And how it will be appreciated!”
Continuing, she wrote of the kindly fisher-folk whose cabins nestled among the trees, and of the old time cottagers who made the island their summer home.