“Big shot,” said Indian John, jerking his head toward the retreating figure.
“What kind of big shot?” Florence asked.
“Don’t know.” John twisted the wheel. “Not Houghton man. Came from somewhere. Don’t know where.”
“Well,” said Dave, “big shot or no, we’re off for Siskowit.”
Leaving the pilot house, Florence walked to the prow of the boat, then dropped into a steamer chair. At once her alert mind was busy on past and present. They were headed for an island. It was on fire. The island was a regular tinderbox. There was gasoline on board. Their boat was motor-driven.
“Three hundred gallons of gas,” she thought with a shudder. “To be of any real help we’ll have to draw in close to the island. That’s dangerous—might be disastrous.”
Then, like a weather-vane whipped suddenly about by the wind, her thoughts turned to the past. It was to have been a rich and glorious adventure—this summer cruise. Four months before she had been seated with a jolly, friendly group, her own people for the most part, listening to a promoter’s rosy tale of money to be made by a boat running from the mainland to Isle Royale.
And they had the boat! Ah! yes, there had been their weakness. The Wanderer, her grandfather’s boat, had been tied up at the dock for two years. Before that it had carried fruit across Lake Michigan. Trucks had ruined this trade. Then, too, a weak heart had forced her grandfather into retirement.
“But you young people!” the promoter had exclaimed, “you know how to run the boat, don’t you?”
“Oh sure,” Dave had grinned, “I’ve been on the boat with the captain here for two years.”