For a time, guided by the gleam of a flashlight, they marched along in silence. Once a moose sprang from the trail to go crashing through the brush. “A thousand moose on the island,” Florence thought. “They may all be destroyed by the fire.”
“Isle Royale has always been my home,” Vi broke the silence at last.
“Always, winter and summer?” Florence asked.
“Two winters we went to the mainland. Since then, fish have been cheap. Times have been hard. We couldn’t afford to go. They sent us a teacher, so we stayed here. We’ve graduated from high school,” Vi laughed low, “my sister and I, in a log cabin school.
“We go up here,” she said at last. “The moose trail is terrible, but we—we’ll make it.”
And they did. With the beacon campfire as their guide, they climbed until at last, with a cry of victory, they burst in upon the astonished and overjoyed campers.
“A red-and-black boat, a gray-haired man and a sixteen-year-old girl,” Florence quoted, scarcely realizing what she was saying.
“You’ve got our number,” laughed a tall, thin, gray-haired man. “But how did you know all this?”
“They’ve been broadcasting about you for days,” said Florence.
“See, Grandfather!” the strange girl exclaimed. “I told you they’d find us.”