“Whose boat is that?” Dave asked, pointing to the small fishing schooner.
“Holgar Carlson’s, from Chippewa,” Frey answered.
“Hello, Holgar!” Dave called. “How much to carry ten passengers to Chippewa?”
“Oh, I tank mebby ten dollar,” Holgar drawled.
“All right. Come alongside.”
“Here.” Dave waved a greenback when all passengers had been transferred.
“No you don’t. This is on us,” and Captain Frey slipped a bill in the fisherman’s hand.
“You don’t know,” he commented a moment later, as he stood beside Florence on the Wanderer, “you’ll never know what this means to us. We’ve worked so hard getting a camp. Rain, cold, swamps, mosquitoes—it sure has been tough on the boys, and now this!” His arms swept a wide circle. “We’re not to blame for the fire. The boys were here, all of them. They didn’t set it. It just came creeping down upon us from nowhere. The boys have been fighting it for hours.”
For a time after that, as guided by Indian John’s skillful hand the boat glided shoreward, nothing further was said. Once, as the wind veered, a heavy cloud of yellow smoke engulfed them.
“Oh-o,” Florence gasped, trying to breathe. “This—this is terrible.”