And chilled it was. “Just think!” one woman exclaimed, as she climbed stiffly on board. “The motor’s dead. Probably it’s going to storm. The cold night. We—”
“And not a blanket, nor bite to eat,” added another. “It was perfectly frightful.”
“Climb right up and come into the cabin,” Florence invited cheerily. “I’ve got a roaring fire and gallons of coffee!”
“Coffee! Hot coffee! Man! Oh, man!” exclaimed the leader of the party. “Take us to it!”
“It was my batteries,” grumbled the stout speedboat man, as he crowded into the cabin after them.
“Started out with bum batteries. That’s b-a-d.” It was Chips who spoke. “But I got some that belong to pumps,” he volunteered. “I’ll lend ’em to you.”
“Not for taking us on to Isle Royale,” exclaimed the leader of the party. “We’re through! No more speedboats for us. We stay right here. What do you say?”
The shouts of approval which rose at this suggestion warmed Florence’s heart.
“What’s more,” the leader fairly bristled, “that money we paid you for the trip!” he shouted at the speedboat man. “Shell out, or we’ll sue you for damages. That money goes to this young skipper and her crew.” He turned to Florence.
“I’m not the skipper,” she protested.