SUN-TAN TILLIE
Next day Florence made a new friend. Petite Jeanne wished to spend the
morning, which was damp and a trifle chilly, among the cushions before
the fire. Florence went for a ramble in the forest.
She took a path she had not followed before. These strange trails
fascinated her. Some of them, she had been told, led on and on and on
into vast, trackless slashings where one might be lost for days, and
perhaps never return.
She had no notion of getting herself lost. By watching every fork in the
trail, and noting the direction she had taken, she made sure of finding
her way back.
She had been following this trail for half an hour when of a sudden a
voice shattered the silence of the forest.
“Now, Turkey, do be careful!” It was a girl’s light pitched voice. “We’ve
got to get them. You know we have.”
“But what if they ain’t here?” grumbled a boy’s voice.
“What can they be after?” Florence asked herself. “And who can they be,
way back here in the forest where no one lives?”
She hesitated for a moment. Then, deciding to investigate, she pushed on.
She was not long in discovering that she had been mistaken on one count.
She was not in the heart of the forest. The trees thinned. She found
herself on the edge of a bay where bullrushes were thick. She had crossed
a point of land and had come to water again.
Near the beach, in shallow water, a boy of twelve and a girl of sixteen
were struggling with a minnow net.
The net was long and hard to handle. Weeds in the water hampered their
progress. They had not seen Florence. The girl labored with the
determined look of one who must not pause until her task is completed.
The boy was a plain towhead. There are a thousand such on the shores of
the Upper Peninsula. The girl caught Florence’s attention. She was plump,
well formed, muscular. Her body was as brown as an Indian’s. She
possessed a wealth of golden red hair. A single garment covered her, a
bathing suit which had once been green, but was now nearly white.
“Natives,” thought Florence. “But what are they after?”
Just then the girl looked up. She took Florence in from head to toe at a
glance.
“Hello.” Her tone was frank, friendly.
“Hello,” Florence came back. “What’s your name?”
“Tillie—Tillie McFadden.” The girl flashed her charming Irish smile.
“Tillie!” exclaimed Florence. “Sun-Tan Tillie!”
The smile faded for a second, then returned. “Oh! You mean I’m brown.
I’ve always been that way.”
“I know girls who’d give their best dresses for your color. They buy it
in boxes, and put it on with a brush, in Chicago.”
The girl laughed. Then she looked at the net and frowned. “Now we lost
’em! Turkey, we’ve got to get ’em. There’s ten autos on the way.”
“What are you catching?” asked Florence.
“Minnies.”
“Oh, minnows? Not many here, are there?”
“No. That’s the trouble. Been trying for more than an hour. Pop, he runs
a tourist camp. Turkey and I catch the bait. It’s tough sometimes.”
“Over across the point,” Florence replied quickly, “there are millions. I
saw them half an hour ago. Water’s black with them.”
“Morton’s Bay.” Tillie’s face lighted. “Turkey, we got to go there. It’s
quite a row, but that’s the only place.”
“Why don’t you bring the net across the point?” Florence asked. “Let your
brother take the boat around. I’ll slip on my bathing suit and help you.”
“Would you?” Tillie smiled gratefully.
“I’d love to. Must be a lot of fun. All those minnows tickling your
toes.”
“Might be fun for some,” said Tillie doubtfully.
“Turkey,” she commanded, “you bring the boat around.”
“Why do you call him Turkey?” Florence asked when they were in the
forest.
“Turkey Trot. That’s his nickname. Boys called him that because they said
he ran like a turkey. He don’t mind. Up here everybody’s got a nickname.”
They said no more, but marched straight on over the woodland trail.
Tillie was strong and fast. There was no questioning that. She was in a
hurry, too. She led the way, and the city girl experienced difficulty in
holding the pace.
She had dropped a little behind. Tillie was around a curve and out of
sight, when of a sudden she heard a piercing scream. The next moment she
beheld Tillie nimbly climbing a tree.
The cause was not far to seek. Despite her efforts at self control, she
burst out laughing. Down the path came a big brown bear. The bear wore a
leather collar set with mother-of-pearl.
When she could stop laughing she screamed to Tillie: “You don’t have to
be afraid of him. He’s our pet bear, Tico.”
But what was this? Tico, if Tico it be, marched straight at her. He
showed all his teeth in an ugly snarl. Florence promptly followed Tillie
up the tree. From this point of vantage she was able to make a more
careful study of the bear and to discover that he was not Tico after all.
He was not as large as Tico. His collar, though somewhat like Tico’s, was
utterly different in design.
“The final laugh is on me,” she said, almost gayly.
“No,” replied Tillie. “It’s on me. There’s a tourist party of ten autos
coming to our camp. They’ll be there in two hours. They’ve got to have
bait. You can’t catch minnies in a tree.”
This, Florence admitted, was true. However, the bear did not keep them
prisoners long. For, after all, he was someone’s tame bear and had eaten
his breakfast. After sniffing at Tillie’s net and enjoying its fishy
smell, he ambled off, leaving them to continue their journey, which they
did at redoubled speed.
As they hurried down the trail, one thought occupied Florence’s mind.
“That bear,” she told herself, “belongs to those gypsies. And he’s nearer
our camp right now than the gypsies have been.” She was thinking once
more of Petite Jeanne.