“It’s all the same. What do you say?” he turned on the speedboat man.
“All right!” The man held out a roll of bills.
“Here you are, sister.” After adding one bill, the leader transferred the roll to Florence. “A bit extra for doughnuts and coffee and—and as a penalty for our insulting a real boat.” At this they all laughed.
An hour later the Wanderer was once more rolling on her way, and Florence was preparing for ten more winks of sleep. Before her eyes closed, however, her mind ran dreamily to the mysterious Chips and the more mysterious gray-haired man and the girl they had rescued from Greenstone Ridge.
Dawn found the Wanderer and its passengers at the island. Once they arrived, they were not long in discovering that the man, Chips, had not been over-advertised. Born and bred in the north woods, a natural director of men, he inspired confidence and hope everywhere.
Scarcely had he left the boat when he asked, “Where’s your map? Now where are the fires? There are hundreds of men on the island. Where are they? That’s good! This is bad. Where are the patrol boats? Where’s the Iroquois? Move these men. Put pumps there. We’ll make a stand across here: Lake Ritchie, Chickenbone Lake, and McCargo’s Cove. That line must hold. This end of the island must be saved at all cost. See?”
Everyone did see at once; and little by little order was being restored.
“You’ve saved us,” a bearded cottager gripped Florence’s hand. “You young people of the Wanderer did it. You brought us Chips. You’ve stood by. We’ll not forget.”
Warmed by this speech and glowing with hope, Florence turned to Dave and exclaimed, “We’ll win now. I know it!”
“Win what?” Dave grinned good-naturedly.