“Who’d y’ think it was goin’ to be?” growled Mike.
“But Mike! You helping to fight the fire?”
“I wasn’t helpin’,” Mike lied. “I was just dryin’ out me clothes.”
“Yes?” Florence turned over his right hand. It was still red from the work it had done. There were two fresh blisters there. “Yes,” she said, speaking with difficulty, “you—you were drying your clothes!”
For a moment there was silence, save for the roar and crackle of the fire blazing away where it could do no harm. As the girl watched the flames dart high, only to fall back against water-soaked trees, she knew she was safe in snatching a few moments of rest. The victory was won. The little fishery, the tiny cabins, the humble home of her friends—all were safe. The fire would creep along the ridge until it came to barren rocks and the waters of Superior. There it would flash and sputter its life away. There might be other fires on the island. There were. She caught the light of them in the distance. But Chippewa Harbor was safe!
“It wasn’t fer you that I done it!” Mike protested.
“Then why?” she demanded.
“Think yer smart, don’t y’?” was Mike’s only reply.
The truth was, Florence had unlocked the only door to Mike’s heart. With the aid of that sputtering pump, she had licked him good and plenty. And the law of physical force was the only law Mike knew anything about.
“Mike,” said Florence after a time, “what do you know about these fires being set?”