“Perhaps,” Florence agreed, “anyway I want you to meet Katie. She’s no butterfly.” Katie grinned good-naturedly. “She wants to be our cook. She can make pasties.”
“Pasties. Oh! Boy!” Dave grinned. “Sure. Take her on.”
“I can make bread, too,” Katie volunteered eagerly. “Saffron buns and everything!”
Florence did not know what saffron buns were, but decided she could stand them at least once.
“All right,” she said, with a note of finality, “you are hired. Then perhaps you will see your brother now and then. You shall be our cook. That is,” her voice dropped, “if you want to.”
For answer, Katie Eskelund tumbled her blanketroll over the rail. That is how the Wanderer came by a new cook. And she was a cook indeed!
At eleven o’clock that same night Florence awoke. She was wide-awake. A feeling that all was not well disturbed her. What could it be? Were they having engine trouble? Had there been tampering on board? No, the motor throbbed sweetly. Was there a storm? Only a choppy sea that should have rocked her to sleep.
A breath of cold air brushed her cheek. Her stateroom door was open. How come? She sat up. The roll of the boat had banged it open. But look! She now stared away at the black waters. Had she caught a gleam of light out there? It did not seem probable. They were halfway across the lake, thirty-five miles from anywhere. And yet—yes, there it was! She saw it plainly now.
“It blinks!” she exclaimed aloud. “Distress signal! Oh, dear!” she sighed. “It seems as if the whole world’s in trouble.”
Hurriedly drawing on dressing gown and slippers, she climbed out into the chill air of night to find Dave in the pilothouse.