As Jeanne crept softly to her berth in Florence’s stateroom, Plumdum gave a low “yip—yip.” He was silenced at once, but Florence, wakened from her dreams, did not fall asleep for some time.
As she listened to the sounds of the night, the low tweet-tweet of the night bird, the swish-swish of a moose swimming the bay and the distant howl of a bush wolf, her mind was crowded with thoughts that for the moment seemed not connected at all.
There were the gray-haired old man and his granddaughter whom they had rescued from Greenstone Ridge. Who was he? And would they meet again? There was the big man whose speedboat had failed. Would he try again? Would their license be renewed, or would this man put an end to their work as passenger carriers? And the fires? Were they under control? Dared she hope this? She dared not hope. Why had the voice in the night said these fires had been set?
“Why would they?” she whispered. “How could they?”
Suddenly, as if in answer to her whisper, a voice broke the silence of the night. “Ya. Dese fires dey iss bein’ set. Dey iss—no doubt about dat. But who is setting dem? Dat’s de question.”
“The same voice,” Florence almost said aloud. Springing from her berth barefooted, in pajamas, she dashed out onto the deck to send the gleam of her flashlight far and wide.
“There is no one on the water,” she whispered. Shuddering, she crept back beneath the blankets.
A moment later she heard footsteps on deck. At first she thought it must be the mysterious man. As she listened, however, she recognized Dave’s substantial tread.
“Florence,” he spoke through the latticed window, “we’ve been going it rather strong of late. Guess we’ll take a half-day off. If you and Jeanne have anything to do, you might go at it in the morning. We won’t leave here before noon.”
“Good!” she exclaimed, “we’ll go on some sort of a hike. I’m aching for a chance to stretch my legs. They get all cramped up here on deck.”