ASHES IN THEIR HAIR
To our good pals, Florence and Jeanne, who had been so tossed about by
the waves of old Superior in his worst mood, nothing could have been more
delightful than the interlude that followed.
“Contrast!” Florence exclaimed, as, after a refreshing bath, she welcomed
the clean coolness of linen sheets. “It is contrast that makes living
such a joy. Half the night we tumble about in the dark, the other half we
rest in the most perfect of summer lodges.”
“Yes,” Jeanne agreed. “Tomorrow we dream by an open fire. And next
day—who knows?”
Who indeed!
They slept until ten next morning. Because of their service to the island
all dining room rules were broken, and they were served with delicious
French toast and coffee. After that, they retired to the broad lounge
where they stretched themselves out in roomy chairs before a cheerful
fire.
“How grand it would be just to live here as guests!” Jeanne whispered.
“And forget all about the fire,” Florence agreed. “But that would be
impossible.”
And indeed it would. The fires were not forgotten by anyone. Only the
hardiest of souls had remained on the island. At that moment, catching
snatches of conversation from the guests lounging in the big room, the
girls heard, “They say they’re being set; these fires.” It was a woman
who spoke.
“See?” Florence whispered. “What have I been saying?”
“That’s nonsense,” a man’s voice rumbled. “The island is like tinder.
Bits of birchbark are lighted by the flames. They break away and are
carried miles.”
“Still on fire?” said another voice.
“Absolutely!” the man insisted. “There are ashes in your hair right now,
and you weren’t out of doors a quarter-hour. Where did they come from?
Many miles away. Yesterday I saw a black object floating down. I caught
it. It was a leaf, charred black by the fire. It had floated in the air
miles and miles.”
Apparently convinced, his companions said no more. But Florence was not
satisfied. Had she not been told the fires were being set? And had she
not seen the youth with the crimson sweater? Did some imp whisper, “Yes,
and you are to see him again—very soon. No good will come of that,
either.” Well, perhaps not. Who can say?
“There’s grand fishing here at the island,” said a man in high boots and
red plaid shirt. “I row a heavy boat three hundred miles every summer,
trolling for lake trout. It reduces my waistline two inches.”
“I am always going to row a heavy boat three hundred miles,” drawled a
large, fat man, “next year!” Everyone laughed.
“Last year,” said the ardent fisherman, “I lost my metal lure. Wasn’t
tied right. A fish carried it off, but he gave it back.”
“Gave it back? How come?” asked his fat friend.
“Seems he didn’t want it, so he hung it on a fisherman’s net and the
fisherman gave it to me.”
“You expect us to believe that?”
“I’ve got the lure to prove it.”
“Jeanne,” Florence whispered, “I’m going fishing first chance I get. A
fellow has a little fun coming to him.”
“Yes,” Jeanne admitted, “you have.”
So the long, lazy day passed. It was glorious to sit in the sun, to climb
over the rocks, to loaf by the fire without a care.
When the next day dawned— Sh! That was to be quite another matter.
Their day of perfect peace was climaxed by a pleasant surprise just
before sundown. The evening meal was over. They had settled themselves
before the fire, when someone burst into the room with a low exclamation,
“Moose! Over at the salt lick!”
This was a signal for a silent exit and a tiptoe march out around the
stockade at the back of the lodge, across the tennis court, then into the
brush to a spot where salt had been placed to lure the wild moose.
“A monster!” someone whispered, as they came in sight of the salt lick.
And he was just that. With wide spreading antlers and bulging eyes, in
that dim light he appeared like a very dangerous creature. Jeanne
shuddered at the sight of him. And well she might.
“No cause to be afraid,” said the Commodore. “This is a game preserve. No
one is allowed to shoot them. They are as tame as cattle.”
“Almost!” came from someone in the rear. Who had spoken? Later, when they
tried, no one could recall.
The moose did seem tame enough. There was a camera enthusiast in the
group. Slipping up close, he took time exposures. Then, growing bolder,
he touched off a flash bulb. The moose looked up, glared about him, then
once more began licking the salt.
“Perfect!” someone whispered.
“Almost!” came as a sort of echo.
And then peace ended. Something stirred at Jeanne’s feet. It was Plumdum.
Jeanne gasped. She had left him curled up asleep by the fire. Somehow, he
had got out. The dog scented the moose. The moose saw the dog. To a
moose, a dog is a wolf. To a dog, moose spells danger.
Plumdum was courageous. Barking wildly, he leaped straight at the moose.
Lowering his head and letting out a terrifying bellow, the moose charged
the dog.
“Plumdum! You’ll be killed!” Poor Jeanne shrieked.
The visitors vanished.
“Come on.” Florence seized Jeanne by the arm, “You can’t do anything
about that!”
“He’ll be killed!” the little French girl screamed.
Slowly, as the moose came on, Florence led her companion back. It did
seem as though Plumdum would be killed. Yet, quick as a flash, he avoided
every toss of those massive antlers.
Then came a touch of comedy. A stout clothesline was stretched three
times across the monster’s path. Heaving his antlers high for one more
try at Plumdum, he brought them squarely into these lines. At once he was
entangled. Florence laughed at his frantic efforts to break loose. But
Jeanne, dashing forward, seized the small dog to carry him away.
She was not an instant too soon. The moose, having torn the line from its
hooks, gave vent to one more bellow of rage, and was after them. Before
them was a high board fence, and in the fence a swinging gate. Pushing
her companion before her, Florence crowded through the gate. The moose,
only a step behind them, thrust his nose into the opening just as the
gate slammed shut. A chain, hung with two heavy rocks, held it tight.
Florence added her weight to that of the stones by dropping on the chain,
and Mr. Moose had his nose pinched in a manner he would not soon forget.
When at last he had freed himself, he went swiftly and silently away into
the brush. The fight was over. Peace again reigned in Snug Harbor. Jeanne
and Florence enjoyed one more night of repose. And tomorrow was another
day.