Once before the Wanderer had put into this harbor with supplies and, becoming storm-bound, its crew had spent several happy hours with the campers. Having seen neither mothers nor sisters for months, the fellows had treated Florence as if she were a queen.
“We may be broke,” Dave muttered grimly, “but we’re not too broke to offer a helping hand.”
“You’re not going in there?” demanded an angry voice. Once more it was the “big shot,” as Indian John had called him, who spoke.
For a short space of time no one replied. In that brief moment, the number of questions that passed through Florence’s mind was astonishing. Who was this man? What did he really want?
“Yes,” it was Dave who spoke at last, quietly as ever, “yes, we are going in.”
“You’ll blow this can of yours sky high and all of us with it.”
“Not you,” said Dave with a touch of scorn. “See! There’s a fisherman’s boat coming to meet us. We’ll send you on to Chippewa with it.”
At that the man subsided into silence. As the small boat pulled closer, Dave saw that Captain Frey, in charge of the camp, was on board.
“We’re coming in,” Dave shouted cheerfully. “We’ve a good pump and an inch-and-a-half hose.”
“That’s great,” was the young captain’s heartened response. “You might save us. But is it safe? How about the passengers?”