“It seems to blink,” said Dave. “Strange sort of fire, I’d say. That—why, that’s not a fire!” he exclaimed excitedly. “At least not a forest fire. It’s a campfire. Looks like a signal fire as well. Watch! It’s gone. Now it’s there again. Watch! And now—say! They’re signaling in Morse code. Wait! Let me see if I can get their message!”
And so with the forest fire not two miles away creeping toward them and roaring at them, the little group, unable for the moment to do anything to save themselves or property, stood silent, watching, completely forgetting their own troubles because of their interest in others who might be in distress.
As for Florence, she was thinking of that message which had become deeply impressed upon her mind. The message, as you may recall, had been concerned with a red-and-black boat, a gray-haired man, and a girl of sixteen.
This message once more passed through the girl’s mind, “Important! To all lodgekeepers and captains of ships touching at Isle Royale. Be on the lookout for a red-and-black boat. Tall, gray-haired man, girl of sixteen on board. Important! Be on the lookout!”
“Is this their campfire up on that rocky ridge?” she asked herself.
“Yes.” It was Dave who spoke. “They must be in trouble. Their message is just one word, ‘Help!’”
“But what could have happened?” demanded Vi Carlson, one of the daughters of the fisherman. “All they’ve got to do is come down the ridge.”
“Yes, but if one of them were sick or injured,” Florence’s brow wrinkled. “And see!” she cried in fresh alarm. “There is a tongue of flame farther down the ridge. There is a second fire after all. If no one goes to help them they may be trapped.”
“We might go, you and I,” Dave suggested. “I’ll get a square of canvas. Might need it to make a stretcher. Then we’ll be off.” He hurried away.
“There’s a trail to Lake Ritchie and a moose path up the ridge,” Ve Carlson, the other daughter of the fisherman volunteered. “I—I’ll show you the way. You’d never find the way by yourselves. Come on,” Ve was off.