“Doomed, for all that,” Dave said soberly. “Look at that line of fire not a half-mile off and coming this way!
“For once,” he spoke slowly, “the Wanderer is going to run.”
“Oh! No! Not yet!” Florence remonstrated.
“Not yet, but soon,” was the reply. “When we touch the dock you tell those folks to get everything that’s portable on the deck of this boat without delay.”
“But will they do it?” All too well the girl knew the stubborn determination of these Scandinavian people.
To her surprise she found the fisher-folk ready to comply. They had seen enough, were ready to admit themselves beaten. Even the troop of city boys, who knew nothing of fire fighting, joined in the rescue work. In no time at all the cottages, fishhouse and store were stripped.
“What about these?” a boy asked, pointing to several large boxes.
“Government property,” Florence decided. “They stay.”
“When do we go aboard?” Mike, leader of the boys’ troop, asked.
“You don’t go!” Florence gave him a strange smile. “You, too, are government property. Oh, you won’t burn,” she added, as she saw the sullen look on the boy’s face deepen. “All you have to do is run over the ridge, climb down fifty feet, and find a good place to rest. The fire will never touch you. Besides—” She did not finish.