To this, Florence would not agree. She had heard the voice. She had seen the mysterious youth and was sure she would see him again.
“Questions that interest me more are—shall we be allowed to continue carrying passengers?” said Dave, “and can we get more fuel oil on credit? Upon these answers depends our future.”
“And perhaps the future of the island,” Florence added soberly.
“Yes, even that,” Dave admitted.
“Well,” Dave laughed as, late that day, his boat tied up at Houghton, he slowly paced the dock, “we won’t have to worry about the future for a day or two. This nor’wester will keep us in port, come what will.” Just as they entered the canal, ten miles from Houghton, a wild storm had come booming in.
“Couldn’t we make a trip if we had to?” Florence asked.
“Well, if we had to, I suppose we could.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” a brusque voice interrupted.
“Why?” Dave stared. He found himself looking into the keen, gray eyes of the elderly man whom with his granddaughter, they had rescued some days before from Greenstone Ridge on Isle Royale.
“They are having a hard time on the island,” the man explained. “Chips wants more pumps and hose. There are pumps here—twenty of them—and ten thousand feet of hose. I’d like—”