discouragement.

Isle Royale on fire! Florence tried to think what that might mean. For weeks there had been no rain. During their short stops at Chippewa Harbor, Tobin’s and Belle Isle, she had often walked back into the forests. She had found the trees, the moss, the soil dry as tinder.

“Wha—what part of the island is on fire?” she managed to ask.

“Siskowit Bay.” The Indian took the wheel, relieving Dave.

“Where all those boys are camped?” the girl asked.

The Indian nodded.

“Do—do you suppose they are in danger?”

“Don’t know,” John twisted the wheel, “Bad fire.” He scanned the horizon.

“John,” said Dave, “do you know the rocks of Harlem Reef?”

“Every rock.” The Indian showed his fine teeth in a smile.

“Then I think,” Dave weighed his words carefully, “I think we’d better put in there. It’s off our course, but—”

“What’s that?” a voice broke in sharply, “A fire on Isle Royale?”

“Yes, we—”

Florence did not finish. As she looked into the eyes of the man who had spoken she read there something that almost frightened her.

He was a short, stout man, one of the few passengers on that voyage. In his face she seemed to detect a look almost of antagonism. “But why?” she thought in sudden consternation, “I’ve never seen him before, I am sure of that. What can we have done to him?”

When the man spoke, none of this was to be detected in his words.

“A fire on Isle Royale?” He even forced a smile. “Too bad. But I can’t say that concerns us. This is a passenger boat, bound for Rock Harbor. Lake Siskowit, I’m told, is some twenty miles from there——”

“A fire,” Captain Davie spoke slowly, “any fire that destroys property concerns all of us.”

“Swing her about, John,” he turned to the Indian. “We’re going in there.”

“But your schedule calls for first stop at Rock Harbor,” the man insisted.

“That’s right, but an emergency exists. We—”

“Emergency my eye!” The man’s dark face flushed angrily. “You’ve contracted to have me at Rock Harbor by four o’clock, the Iroquois docks an hour later. I shall have just time to transact my business and catch the Iroquois. If you don’t get me to Rock Harbor on time, you’ll regret it.”

“Perhaps,” was Dave’s slow rejoinder. Turning to the Indian he said quietly, “John, we’re putting in at Siskowit.”

“I’ll break you!” the man exclaimed angrily.

“That,” Dave laughed uncertainly, “that’s impossible. We’re already broke.”

Turning on his heel, the passenger strode away.

“Big shot,” said Indian John, jerking his head toward the retreating figure.

“What kind of big shot?” Florence asked.

“Don’t know.” John twisted the wheel. “Not Houghton man. Came from somewhere. Don’t know where.”

“Well,” said Dave, “big shot or no, we’re off for Siskowit.”

Leaving the pilot house, Florence walked to the prow of the boat, then dropped into a steamer chair. At once her alert mind was busy on past and present. They were headed for an island. It was on fire. The island was a regular tinderbox. There was gasoline on board. Their boat was motor-driven.

“Three hundred gallons of gas,” she thought with a shudder. “To be of any real help we’ll have to draw in close to the island. That’s dangerous—might be disastrous.”

Then, like a weather-vane whipped suddenly about by the wind, her thoughts turned to the past. It was to have been a rich and glorious adventure—this summer cruise. Four months before she had been seated with a jolly, friendly group, her own people for the most part, listening to a promoter’s rosy tale of money to be made by a boat running from the mainland to Isle Royale.

And they had the boat! Ah! yes, there had been their weakness. The Wanderer, her grandfather’s boat, had been tied up at the dock for two years. Before that it had carried fruit across Lake Michigan. Trucks had ruined this trade. Then, too, a weak heart had forced her grandfather into retirement.

“But you young people!” the promoter had exclaimed, “you know how to run the boat, don’t you?”

“Oh sure,” Dave had grinned, “I’ve been on the boat with the captain here for two years.”

“And Rufus is a fine engineer,” Florence had exclaimed, “Why not?” Her heart had given a great leap at the thought of fresh and glorious adventure. “I—I know a lot about the island. I’ll be first mate.”

“There you are,” the promoter had begun pacing back and forth before the open fire, “you’ll make a fortune! You know the island is being made into a national park,” he had enthused, “Thousands will be wanting to go there. Most beautiful spot in all the Midwest.”

“And the temperature,” he had fairly exploded, “It’s never above seventy, even when all the rest of the country is melting at a hundred in the shade. Ten dollars round trip. Fifty to seventy-five passengers to the trip. Three trips a week. You’ll wear diamonds! You’ll go to college! You’ll—”

“Yes,” the girl thought now, sitting there watching the distant island come nearer, “yes, we took it all in. Half of what he said was true. It is a glorious island. The temperature is wonderful, but how many people know it? Not many. How many are coming? Very few. We’re licked, that’s all. Grandfather spent two thousand dollars he couldn’t well spare to fit out our boat. Here we are making trip after trip, taking in enough to make expenses, not earning a cent, and paying back nothing. Diamonds! College!” She laughed a trifle bitterly.

No time now for regrets, however. The Wanderer was rapidly nearing shore. She could catch the red glow of the fire. Would there be real danger? There were ten passengers on board. Was it right to endanger the lives of these, even to the slightest degree? Dropping back to the side of her stalwart cousin, she confided to him her fears.

“We’ll be careful,” said Dave. “There may be some small boat that can take the passengers on to Chippewa.”

“I hope so,” the girl agreed.

As the Wanderer at last rounded the point of land hiding the camp on Siskowit Bay, it took no second look to tell them that the situation was critical. Creeping slowly forward from bush to bush and tree to tree, the fire was moving like some slow, red serpent toward the stout camp that had been built by so much labor and such willing hands.

“They’re nice boys,” Florence breathed, thinking of the C.C.C. boys who had built the camp.

“Fine chaps,” her cousin agreed.

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