“And Rufus is a fine engineer,” Florence had exclaimed, “Why not?” Her heart had given a great leap at the thought of fresh and glorious adventure. “I—I know a lot about the island. I’ll be first mate.”
“There you are,” the promoter had begun pacing back and forth before the open fire, “you’ll make a fortune! You know the island is being made into a national park,” he had enthused, “Thousands will be wanting to go there. Most beautiful spot in all the Midwest.”
“And the temperature,” he had fairly exploded, “It’s never above seventy, even when all the rest of the country is melting at a hundred in the shade. Ten dollars round trip. Fifty to seventy-five passengers to the trip. Three trips a week. You’ll wear diamonds! You’ll go to college! You’ll—”
“Yes,” the girl thought now, sitting there watching the distant island come nearer, “yes, we took it all in. Half of what he said was true. It is a glorious island. The temperature is wonderful, but how many people know it? Not many. How many are coming? Very few. We’re licked, that’s all. Grandfather spent two thousand dollars he couldn’t well spare to fit out our boat. Here we are making trip after trip, taking in enough to make expenses, not earning a cent, and paying back nothing. Diamonds! College!” She laughed a trifle bitterly.
No time now for regrets, however. The Wanderer was rapidly nearing shore. She could catch the red glow of the fire. Would there be real danger? There were ten passengers on board. Was it right to endanger the lives of these, even to the slightest degree? Dropping back to the side of her stalwart cousin, she confided to him her fears.
“We’ll be careful,” said Dave. “There may be some small boat that can take the passengers on to Chippewa.”
“I hope so,” the girl agreed.
As the Wanderer at last rounded the point of land hiding the camp on Siskowit Bay, it took no second look to tell them that the situation was critical. Creeping slowly forward from bush to bush and tree to tree, the fire was moving like some slow, red serpent toward the stout camp that had been built by so much labor and such willing hands.
“They’re nice boys,” Florence breathed, thinking of the C.C.C. boys who had built the camp.
“Fine chaps,” her cousin agreed.