“All right,” she laughed, “then I’ll look for some other creature.” She knew what. Nor was she to be disappointed.
Two hours later they were standing on the crest of the ridge, looking down the length of the island, where great clouds of smoke were rising and drifting away across the water. The nearest fire, Florence estimated, could not now be three miles from the spot where they now stood.
“If a strong wind came up—blowing this way—” She shuddered as she spoke.
“Yes,” said Jeanne, “that would be tragic!”
And so it would be. Back of them were woods and water, picturesque cottages and happy people. Before them, fire.
“Look, Jeanne!” With trembling hands Florence passed the field glasses to her companion. “There on the rocks close to that dark cluster of spruce trees, right between three fires—do you see anything there?”
“Yes.” Jeanne spoke very slowly. “There is a spot—a crimson spot. It moves. It is a man.”
“Or perhaps a boy,” said Florence. “Listen, Jeanne,” the big girl’s lips were a straight line, “I am going to that spot!”
“Oh, no!” Jeanne protested.
“Yes.” Florence was serious. “If that is the firebug, I shall get him.”