Was Dave right? What would that mean to their young lives if he were. To these questions Florence could form no answers.
“Took in one hundred and forty dollars this trip,” Dave exulted as he walked into town with Florence. “First thing we know we’ll be making money!”
Would they? For once Florence dared hope. Perhaps this fire was a blessing in disguise. With the Iroquois off the run, with army officers and park officials in a hurry to reach the island, and with a few daring souls still ready to spend a short vacation on the island, it did seem that they might hope. And yet, before nightfall hope had vanished.
It was two hours after they had docked. Florence was busy tidying up her galley when a gay party of six, three men and their wives, all attired in the latest sports togs, appeared on the dock.
“Is this the boat that goes to Isle Royale?” they asked.
“Yes, but—” Florence hesitated, “perhaps you haven’t heard—the island’s on fire.”
“Oh, yes, we’ve heard,” one of the women enthused. “That makes it all the more exciting. When do we sail?”
“Tomorrow evening at eight o’clock is our regular time.”
“Six round trip tickets,” the girl was thinking. “Sixty dollars. And perhaps—yes, there were three young officers coming down the dock—ninety dollars. Wonderful!”
But wait! There was a disturbance—the stout man who had taken such a dislike to Florence and Dave that first day of the fire, drew one of the six would-be passengers aside. Florence did not hear what he said, but, with a sinking heart, she saw him pointing to a large speedboat tied up at a smaller dock.