The man had been leaping from rock to rock. Now he paused to turn and look away. Did Florence see a fresh column of smoke rise from the evergreen forest? She thought so. She could not be sure.
“He’s young,” she thought. “Perhaps only a boy. Not even a middle-aged person could go over the rocks like that. Can he be a firebug? Are these fires being set by him?”
To these questions there could be no answer for the present. One thing was certain. If she saw him again close by and he wore that sweater, she would know him, for surely there was but one such flash of red on the island.
Two hours later the girls were having lunch with Edith Mateland, the wife of one of the fishermen. She was a small person, and Florence thought rather frail for such a life.
“Edith,” Florence said, “do people ever set forest fires?”
“Oh, yes. Many times!” was the startling reply.
“But why?”
“Perhaps they do not like the people who own the timber.”
“Revenge?”
“Yes. And perhaps they just want work.”