CHIPS
Early as it was, when she came on deck next morning Florence found the
slim, gray-haired man in a steamer chair.
“Now that we’ve found you,” she said with a laugh, “what do we do with
you?”
“Just anything,” he smiled.
“That’s easy.”
“Where do you go from here,” he asked, “and what do you do?”
“We touch at the old lighthouse, where we tell the fishermen that the
fire is pretty bad, but that we know hundreds of men are coming to fight
it, and we feel sure they’ll win.”
“And after that?” He was still smiling.
“Rock Harbor Lodge is next. We tell them the same thing. Then Tobin’s
Harbor. We’ll tell them not to worry; that if the fire threatens them,
we’ll be right there to take them off.”
“And what do you get for all this?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she smiled back at him. “That is, no money—just
satisfaction—heaps and heaps of satisfaction.”
“Then,” he looked at her in a puzzling manner, “after you’ve done these
acts of kindness, you might run us round to McCargo’s Cove and pick up
our small boat. We left it there. You shall be paid in cash for this
service,” he added with a laugh.
“And then?” she queried.
“Do you return to the mainland?”
“We must, for fuel and possible passengers.”
“Then we’ll ride there with you. More money!” he laughed happily. “Why,
you’ll be rolling in wealth!”
“At least,” she agreed, “we can pay for our fuel, and that’s something!”
As they made the rounds of fishing villages and lodges that day, it was
the same old story—worried, anxious faces and whispered rumors of
disaster for all of them in the near future. This brought the
_Wanderer’s_ crew a harvest of a sort. Lodge guests were anxious to leave
the island. It became evident that when the boat headed for Houghton its
decks would be lined with paying passengers. This brought a happy smile
to the big girl’s face. “Perhaps,” she was thinking, “things will not be
so bad after all.”
As for Jeanne, she was the life of the party. Donning a pair of coveralls
miles too large for her, she staged a ludicrous dance she called “The
Deckhands Promenade.”
When at last guests dragged a fiddle and a guitar from their baggage and
sent a wailing, thumping tune drifting across the dark waters, she
disappeared, to come popping out in her silver robe, and to execute a
true gypsy dance that charmed her small audience.
“Jeanne, you are a grand prize!” Florence exclaimed when she had
finished. “If only there were no fire, and this were a regular summer,
you would charm all those land-loving people into a visit to our island
just to see you dance!”
“Ah, well,” Jeanne replied soberly, “perhaps I shall yet dance before the
flames and lead them into the waters where they will drown.”
“Yes,” Florence agreed, with a laugh, “the way the Pied Piper led the
rats into the sea.”
Truly, things were looking up a little for young Skipper Dave and his
crew. One thing was disturbing. Wherever they docked they heard this
complaint, hundreds of men were arriving to fight the fire, the
_Iroquois_ was bringing them, but there was lack of organization and very
little was being accomplished.
“If only Chips was here,” said a grizzled fisherman, as Dave and Florence
left his dock. Strangely enough, they heard this again and again, always
spoken by old men and with great respect, “If only Chips was here. If
only Chips—”
Dave exclaimed at last, “I’d sure like to be that man Chips! Wonder if
he’s real, or only a myth.”
“Wait and see,” said Florence.
If Florence had hoped that the gray-haired man whom they had rescued in
such a dramatic manner, with his granddaughter, from Greenstone ridge,
would, before leaving the boat, reveal his identity, she was doomed to
disappointment. After paying his bill he gave directions for having his
boat and other belongings taken ashore, then lost himself in the crowd
that lined the dock seeking information regarding the fire.
“We haven’t seen the last of him,” Dave prophesied. “He wasn’t on the
island just for a vacation, you may depend upon that.”
Was Dave right? What would that mean to their young lives if he were. To
these questions Florence could form no answers.
“Took in one hundred and forty dollars this trip,” Dave exulted as he
walked into town with Florence. “First thing we know we’ll be making
money!”
Would they? For once Florence dared hope. Perhaps this fire was a
blessing in disguise. With the _Iroquois_ off the run, with army officers
and park officials in a hurry to reach the island, and with a few daring
souls still ready to spend a short vacation on the island, it did seem
that they might hope. And yet, before nightfall hope had vanished.
It was two hours after they had docked. Florence was busy tidying up her
galley when a gay party of six, three men and their wives, all attired in
the latest sports togs, appeared on the dock.
“Is this the boat that goes to Isle Royale?” they asked.
“Yes, but—” Florence hesitated, “perhaps you haven’t heard—the island’s
on fire.”
“Oh, yes, we’ve heard,” one of the women enthused. “That makes it all the
more exciting. When do we sail?”
“Tomorrow evening at eight o’clock is our regular time.”
“Six round trip tickets,” the girl was thinking. “Sixty dollars. And
perhaps—yes, there were three young officers coming down the dock—ninety
dollars. Wonderful!”
But wait! There was a disturbance—the stout man who had taken such a
dislike to Florence and Dave that first day of the fire, drew one of the
six would-be passengers aside. Florence did not hear what he said, but,
with a sinking heart, she saw him pointing to a large speedboat tied up
at a smaller dock.
The man returned. There was a conference among the six prospective
passengers. Florence caught only the words, “Speedboat! How thrilling!”
Turning to Florence, the little lady with the shining eyes said in an
apologetic voice, “I—we’re so sorry, dear. We’ve decided to take the
speedboat. Think of it! We can be over there in two hours, and it will be
so thrilling!”
Florence made no reply. What was there to say? There was a sinking
feeling at the pit of her stomach. Her shoulders drooped. “So that’s it!”
she thought. “That man’s going into competition with us. He’s got
influence. He’ll see that our license to carry passengers is not renewed.
And yet,” her body stiffened, “he can’t keep us from serving the people
of the island. We can still stand by.”
Then a strange thing happened. As the sunlight slowly receded from the
summit of Copper Range, a short, stout man appeared on the dock. To
Florence his dress seemed odd. A broad-brimmed black hat, blue shirt,
overalls, cut off six inches from the ground and not hemmed, and high
topped boots of coarse leather clothed the man. What he said gave her a
start.
“I’m Chips.”
“Mr. Chips!”
“Just plain Chips,” the man corrected. “I want to go to Isle Royale.”
“Yes,” the girl exclaimed. “They want you and need you. The island is in
flames.”
“I know. When do we sail?” Chips was all business.
“Why, ri-right away.” Florence took one bold fling at life. What would
Dave say? Turning about, she set her boat whistle waking echoes among the
sun-tipped hills.
Dave came on the run. “What’s the rumpus? What’s up?” he demanded.
“This,” she said, with as much dignity as she could command, “this is
Chips. The island needs him. We’re sailing as soon as possible, that is—”
her voice trailed off, “if you’re agreed.”
Dave said, “O. K. by me,” and it was done. One passenger. Ten dollars.
This was not the last unusual incident of that day—there was more to
come. Chips had gone for his luggage. Florence was slowly pacing the deck
when a girl shorter and broader than herself appeared before her on the
dock.
“I am Katie,” said the girl. Florence knew she must be a Finlander.
“Katie who?” Florence smiled.
“I am Katie Eskelund,” said the girl. “And I am going to Isle Royale.”
“What place on Isle Royale?” Florence asked.
“Siskowit Bay.” The girl lowered a heavy blanket roll to the dock.
“She’s strong,” Florence thought, “strong as a man. How she could send a
boat through the water!”
“Siskowit?” she said. “There are no women there. Only men and boys.”
“My brother is there,” said Katie. “He is fighting fire. I shall stay
with him. I can fight fire.”
“Why! They won’t let you,” Florence exclaimed. “It’s a boys’ camp!”
“So-o,” the Finnish girl’s face clouded. “But my brother is there,” she
insisted. “We are twins.”
“Oh!” Florence had some notion of what it meant to be a twin. She wanted
to help this girl. But how?
Seized by a sudden inspiration she demanded, “Can you cook? Can you make
pasties?”
“Oh, yes! Very good pasties.”
Pasties! How Florence’s mouth watered. Good little turnover pies all
filled with meat, made only as the people of strange little Finland knew
how.
Just then Dave came up from below. “Dave,” Florence smiled in spite of
herself, “do you think we could use a cook on the _Wanderer_?”
“We—we might,” Dave seemed a little puzzled. “Come to think of it,” he
added after a brief pause, “it would help. Looks to me as if we were
stepping into something rather big. May be a day-and-night affair before
we’re through. You’re O.K. for a cook but not twenty-four hours a day.
And Jeanne, she’s fine, but a bit of a butterfly, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps,” Florence agreed, “anyway I want you to meet Katie. She’s no
butterfly.” Katie grinned good-naturedly. “She wants to be our cook. She
can make pasties.”
“Pasties. Oh! Boy!” Dave grinned. “Sure. Take her on.”
“I can make bread, too,” Katie volunteered eagerly. “Saffron buns and
everything!”
Florence did not know what saffron buns were, but decided she could stand
them at least once.
“All right,” she said, with a note of finality, “you are hired. Then
perhaps you will see your brother now and then. You shall be our cook.
That is,” her voice dropped, “if you want to.”
For answer, Katie Eskelund tumbled her blanketroll over the rail. That is
how the _Wanderer_ came by a new cook. And she was a cook indeed!
At eleven o’clock that same night Florence awoke. She was wide-awake. A
feeling that all was not well disturbed her. What could it be? Were they
having engine trouble? Had there been tampering on board? No, the motor
throbbed sweetly. Was there a storm? Only a choppy sea that should have
rocked her to sleep.
A breath of cold air brushed her cheek. Her stateroom door was open. How
come? She sat up. The roll of the boat had banged it open. But look! She
now stared away at the black waters. Had she caught a gleam of light out
there? It did not seem probable. They were halfway across the lake,
thirty-five miles from anywhere. And yet—yes, there it was! She saw it
plainly now.
“It blinks!” she exclaimed aloud. “Distress signal! Oh, dear!” she
sighed. “It seems as if the whole world’s in trouble.”
Hurriedly drawing on dressing gown and slippers, she climbed out into the
chill air of night to find Dave in the pilothouse.
“Dave,” she said, “there’s a light out there. It blinks as if someone
were in trouble. We—We’ll have to put about and go to his aid, won’t we?”
“Yes, I—I suppose so.”
“I’m going to make a big pot of coffee.” Dave twisted the ship’s wheel,
turning the _Wanderer_ toward the signaling light.