The man returned. There was a conference among the six prospective passengers. Florence caught only the words, “Speedboat! How thrilling!”
Turning to Florence, the little lady with the shining eyes said in an apologetic voice, “I—we’re so sorry, dear. We’ve decided to take the speedboat. Think of it! We can be over there in two hours, and it will be so thrilling!”
Florence made no reply. What was there to say? There was a sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach. Her shoulders drooped. “So that’s it!” she thought. “That man’s going into competition with us. He’s got influence. He’ll see that our license to carry passengers is not renewed. And yet,” her body stiffened, “he can’t keep us from serving the people of the island. We can still stand by.”
Then a strange thing happened. As the sunlight slowly receded from the summit of Copper Range, a short, stout man appeared on the dock. To Florence his dress seemed odd. A broad-brimmed black hat, blue shirt, overalls, cut off six inches from the ground and not hemmed, and high topped boots of coarse leather clothed the man. What he said gave her a start.
“I’m Chips.”
“Mr. Chips!”
“Just plain Chips,” the man corrected. “I want to go to Isle Royale.”
“Yes,” the girl exclaimed. “They want you and need you. The island is in flames.”
“I know. When do we sail?” Chips was all business.
“Why, ri-right away.” Florence took one bold fling at life. What would Dave say? Turning about, she set her boat whistle waking echoes among the sun-tipped hills.