“Ve and Vi,” Florence said, “they are the fisherman’s daughters. They have a short wave outfit for winter use. I shouldn’t wonder,” she hesitated. Then she shouted across to the messenger, “Who’s there?”
“At Chippewa? Only the fishermen and a troop of boys.”
“Boys? What boys?”
“Troop No. 18.”
“Eight-eighteen?” The big girl’s hopes fell. She knew those boys. City bred, they knew nothing of fire fighting. Two boys, Mike and Tony—the worst of the lot—she suspected, were their leaders. What was to be expected from them?
“Go back and get a message to them. Tell them we’re coming!” she called.
“But what’s the good?” Dave demurred, as Ruth ordered the deck cleared for action. “If the place is burning what can be done?”
“You know as well as I,” Florence replied rather sharply, “that reports on this island are always exaggerated. The least we can do is to go over there and take the folks off. Think of losing everything,” she said in a sober tone, “Home, furnishings, everything—the work of a lifetime.”
Soon they were skirting the rocky shores, headed for Chippewa, sixteen miles away. Sitting on the deck, Florence closed her eyes, and tried to picture in her mind the snug little harbor with its tiny huts, its toy-like log cabin store and its little group of fishing folk. Had she seen it all for the last time? It would seem so, for as her eyes opened she saw a long column of yellow smoke trailing out over the lake. As they rounded a point some two miles from the harbor, her anxiety increased. So dense was the smoke that it did not seem that one building could be left standing.
Imagine her surprise and joy when upon rounding the final jutting of rock she beheld Chippewa Harbor just as she had seen it last!