“The gods had turned him to stone.” Jeanne whispered.
“Perhaps,” said Florence.
“I am sure it was so!” Jeanne declared. “But come!” She seized Florence by the hand. “Let us go to the very top.”
Once again they took the upward trail. They came at last to the crest of the ridge. There, standing on a platform of rock known as “Lookout Louise,” they stood in silence, while their eyes took in the glorious view.
It was a clear day. At their feet lay Duncan’s Bay. On the little camping spot at its entrance, more than once in the days that had gone they had pitched their tent.
“Happy days,” Jeanne whispered.
If Florence heard, she made no reply. She was looking away toward the Canadian shores where Sleeping Giant, Pie Island, and Thunder Bay seemed to call to her.
At that Jeanne broke in with three magic words: “The Phantom Fisherman.”
“Oh, no!” Florence exclaimed. “You only see him in a fog.” The fact is, the big girl scarcely believed in this phantom at all.
“See for yourself!” Seizing her arm, Jeanne pointed away over the shimmering water to a spot well beyond the last jagged end of the island.