DON’T STAY TOO LONG
All that night it rained, a slow, steady downpour. The wind that for
weeks had been driving the fire forward shifted. It was now driving the
fire back against itself. Everyone agreed that the battle was won. There
was great rejoicing on the island. The whole country received the glad
report by newspaper and radio.
Tim O’Hara, in his New York radio tower, at once got off a wire to
Florence.
“Congratulations. Stop. Have set your appearance on our program for
next Tuesday. Stop. Ticket will await you at Houghton.
Signed,
Tim O’Hara.”
“He wants me to come to New York,” Florence exclaimed. “New York,” she
repeated softly. “He wants me to tell the story of our fight to save the
island, tell it on his Adventurer’s Club radio program. Just think! Coast
to coast! Millions of people will hear. Shall I go?”
“Go?” Dave roared. “Of course you’ll go. Finest publicity in the world
for our island. And think of the time you’ll have!”
“And I shall go with you,” said Jeanne.
“Sure! Why not?” Florence threw her arms about her. “No great occasion
would be complete without you.”
The two pals did little else save eat and sleep on their way to New York.
From time to time they discussed the mysterious boy in the crimson
sweater.
“He was a nice looking boy,” Jeanne mused. “Not a bit like a firebug.”
“No,” Florence agreed. “Not a bit. I can’t think he was one. All the same
I would like to know why he always ran away.”
“Was there a firebug at all?” Jeanne asked.
“Probably no one will ever know. Many of the mysteries of this old earth
are never solved.”
“Take a taxi from the depot.” This had been the order in Tim’s letter.
Florence took him at his word. After handing a grinning redcap a whole
quarter, she stepped into one of those luxurious New York taxis, and
said, “Hilton Hotel, please.”
Then she settled back against the cushions and sighed, “Boy! This is
life.”
At the hotel desk Tim O’Hara’s letter proved an open-sesame to all that
was grand and luxurious. They were ushered to a room with delightfully
low, twin beds, delicately shaded light, spinet desk and even a radio.
Florence thought of their crowded quarters on the _Wanderer_ and sighed.
But not for long. To the accompaniment of soft music, breakfast was
served in the great dining room below.
One more taxi and they were at the radio building. A moment later and
they looked into Tim O’Hara’s beaming eyes.
“I am glad you could come!” he exclaimed. “I am sure you have a grand
story.
“And this is Jeanne.” He gripped the little French girl’s hand. “Any new
dances?”
“Just one.” Jeanne smiled.
“_Dance of the Flame_,” Florence explained.
“Sounds great! But then,” Tim added, “you can’t dance on the radio.”
“More’s the pity,” said Florence. “It is a glorious dance. Truly
fantastic and—and—”
“Yes, I see,” said Tim O’Hara. “You really can’t describe it. We shall
have it somehow, somewhere.
“But now,” he was all business, “the other members of the cast are here.
Step into my office.”
There three men awaited them: a bronze-faced giant, a man of very
ordinary appearance and a slim, wiry man with sharp black eyes. The first
had been hunting lions in the heart of Africa, the second had been
driving dog teams in the “farthest north” and the third was a revenue
man, who hunted down moonshine stills in the mountains of Kentucky. Each
had known perils and adventures. Each, in his own way, was to tell his
story.
“This is just a get-together,” said Tim O’Hara when introductions had
been attended to. “We’re going to work together for three days—and by
that I mean _work_. So we should know one another.”
After that in a very informal manner each told of his experiences. When
Florence had heard the others she felt the least bit unimportant. But
when, with a word here and there from Jeanne and Tim, she had got truly
warmed up to her subject which, she laughingly explained, was rather a
hot one (fighting fires) she realized that they all were listening with
undivided interest.
“It wouldn’t be a complete show at all without your part,” Tim O’Hara
murmured in her ear when the others were gone. “Your story is truly
thrilling. And it has humor, interest and real heart-throbs. We’ll play
up those little fishing cabins and the old men who have been coming to
the island for so many years. You come back at two-thirty and we’ll write
the script.”
“Oh!” Florence exclaimed. “Must there be a script? Can’t I just tell it
in my own words.”
“Your own words? Surely! But it must be put on paper. Come back at
two-thirty. You shall see it all worked out in a very grand manner.” He
bowed them from the room.
“So this is New York?” Florence breathed as they once again found
themselves on the sidewalk. “How thrilling!”
“Over one block is 5th Avenue,” said Jeanne. “So very wonderful! Gift
shops eight stories high. Everything!”
“Fifth Avenue, here we come!” Florence exclaimed, seizing Jeanne by the
hand. Once they had discovered the broad avenue, so alive and gay, they
wandered on and on. In one shop they bought a bright plaid neck-tie for
Dave, and in another still brighter dress material for Katie. In a music
shop around the corner Jeanne purchased a small statue of a very great
dancer.
“For my studio,” she said with a gay laugh. “The place of my dreams.”
“Ah yes,” Florence thought with a sigh, “how much of all our lives is
made of dreams. And how very cold and lonely we would be without them.”
This mood passed quickly. “Jeanne,” she exclaimed, as a clock caught her
eye, “we must have lunch and get back to that office!”
“Fried oysters!” said Jeanne as they seated themselves at a bright green
table. “Shoestring potatoes, coffee and lemon pie. Why not? This is New
York.”
Fried oysters it was and all the rest. Then a taxi whisked them away to
Tim O’Hara.
“Now,” Tim said to Florence, as he leaned back in his chair to close his
eyes, “tell me all about it in greater detail.”
“New—New York?” she stammered. “It—it’s grand!”
“Not New York.” His eyes flew open. “Tell me about Isle Royale.” His eyes
closed again.
Florence did tell him. Told him in her own dramatic manner. From time to
time he interrupted her to exclaim, “That was a close one—That’s
grand—Just grand—You mean you were trapped by the fire? They flew over
you and dropped the dog? A moose went after the dog? You heard him ki-yi?
Say! That’s a grand story!” At this his eyes popped wide open.
“But this boy in the crimson sweater,” his eyes closed again. “Tell me
about him.”
“He—he disappeared.” Florence hesitated. “I wish we could find him. He
put up such a wonderful fight for that beautiful little island. He wasn’t
the firebug. Probably there wasn’t any firebug. He knows we suspected
him. I—I wish we could find him.”
“We will.” Tim’s eyes were wide open now. “Why not?”
“Do you suppose we really could?”
“You’d be surprised.” Tim leaned forward in his chair. “We pick all sorts
of people right out of the air. As if we had a string on ’em.
“Little while back a man was telling about his adventures buying
unclaimed trunks at auction and trying to find their owners. One very
mysterious case baffled him. He told about it over the air and what do
you think?”
“Wha-what?”
“Two days later he heard from the owner.
“You’re going to ask a million people to send that boy in the crimson
sweater to you and to tell you his story. And they will send him. Someone
surely will.
“But now,” continued Tim, “we’ll write your script.” For a half hour he
pecked away at his typewriter. Then, with a sigh, he murmured, “A mighty
fine story. That’s all for now. Tomorrow in Studio Six we rehearse.”
Four hours later the two girls stepped out on the brightly lighted
streets of America’s greatest city. It was night. A slender, gray-haired
man, with stooping shoulders offered them an evening paper.
As Florence took the paper and dropped a nickel into his hand she could
not help noting how bright his eyes were.
“Isn’t New York wonderful?” she said in a deep voice full of emotion.
“Yes,” the old man agreed. “It’s wonderful when you’re young. But don’t
stay too long.”
“Why—why not?” she was puzzled.
“New York takes you by the hand and whirls you ’round and ’round. It’s
very wild and gay and it makes you drunk. But bye and bye—well,” he
sighed, “look at me. You’d never guess it but I was once a reporter on
that very paper you bought. It whirls you ’round and ’round.” His voice
cracked. “Don’t stay too long, child. Don’t stay too long.”
“A reporter!” Florence exclaimed. “I knew a reporter. He went away to New
York, Peter Kepple.”
“Ah, yes,” the old man sighed, “I knew him here. He died—let me see, two
years ago. Don’t stay too long, Miss.”
Then his shrill old voice rose above the rush and roar of New York.
“Paper! Paper! Get your evening paper here.”
When they were half a block away Florence seemed to hear him calling,
“Don’t stay too long.” How long was too long? She did not know.