  An hour passed and still two dark spots, like markers for a gill net, rose above the waves. The moon, rising higher and higher, brought out more distinctly the ragged tree line of Goose Island. At times the weary girls turned on their backs to float like so much lifeless driftwood. When their weary muscles had gained renewed strength, they began their task again. There were times when Florence, stout-hearted though she was, was tempted to give up hope. At such times she envisioned the rocky beach, the cabinless forest of scrub trees that must grace the surface of the island. She felt, too, the chill of the wind that must await them there. “What’s the use?” she asked herself many times. And always the answer came, “One step at a time is enough for me.” She must trust the future. As for Tillie, she never faltered. Such is the soul of one bred to the rigor, the suffering and perils of the north country. It accepts the condition that each moment offers and awaits the rest. Who will say that this, as a rule of life, is not best? “Cheerio, old thing!” Tillie exclaimed at last. “Another quarter of an hour, and we will be there.” There was courage in her voice, but a look of utter weariness in her eye. “Will she last?” Florence drew one more portion from her reserve strength, prepared, if need be, to see her gallant friend through. Her aid was not needed. The sturdy muscles and vigorous heart of this backwoods girl carried her through. Certainly no city cousin of hers who starves her body and poisons her blood to obtain a slim and graceful figure could have done as much. Who wants to be a wisp that contains a soul? Who would not rather be a Greek goddess? They landed at last upon a broad and pebbly beach. As they crept up away from the waves, the sharp pebbles brought no pain to hands and knees. They were benumbed by cold, too exhausted to feel pain. Yet, after Tillie had laid there for a moment, she drew herself to a sitting position to say an astonishing thing. “Florence,” she exclaimed, “we’ll get that old black bass yet!” In spite of the cold and exhaustion, Florence laughed. The laugh did them both good. “If we are going to do that,” she said, rising stiffly, “we will have to keep moving. If we don’t, we’ll be no better than the wreck of the Hesperus. Let’s go somewhere. It’s a little late, but some place on the island may still be open. A ham and egg place. Haven’t any money, but they’ll trust us. We look so honest, and our clothes are so spick and span.” She looked at Tillie, in her blouse that clung like a rag and knickers that turned her slim legs into pipe stems, and laughed again. “Come on,” said Tillie, struggling to keep up the illusion. “I know a place to go.” She made her way up the gravel beach to a spot where the surface was soft, sandy and half overgrown with grass. Then they started to skirt the shore. They had not gone a hundred yards before Florence began to feel that Tillie was leading a lost hope. The wind was rising. The cold seemed more bitter. “Never will stand it,” she told herself with grim conviction. “Never in the world!” Still she trudged on. Her limbs were growing stiff, her eyes blurred. As they rounded a clump of scrub birch trees, she thought her eyes deceived her. There appeared to be something over there that was not a tree; a small square thing like an overgrown chimney. “Look!” She pulled Tillie by the arm. “Look, Tillie! Is there something over there?” Tillie looked, then cried out for very joy. “It’s a fish shanty! Daddy Red Johnson’s fish shanty! He left it here winter before last. Then he died. Nobody touched it. Oh, thank God!” She dropped to her knees, but was up in an instant. “It doesn’t look like a shanty,” said Florence as they approached it. “Looks like a tall box.” “That’s about all it is. Four sides and a roof. Three feet square. Just a protection from wind and snow while you fish. “But oh, good old Daddy Johnson, if you see us now,” she murmured, talking to the sky, “you know we need your fish shanty a heap worse than you ever did! “Here’s the door,” she said a moment later. “Walk right in and make yourself at home.” Inside this curious box-like affair, which is moved so easily over the ice during the winter fishing, there was only standing room for two. But how warm it seemed! “As if there were a fire.” Florence hugged Tillie for very joy. Then she thanked the Creator of all for this miraculous deliverance. “It’s going to be hard,” she told herself, as she thought of standing there all night, “but we’ll make it. And to-morrow we will improve our condition. “Do boats pass this island?” she asked. “Only very far away.” “Could they see a signal flag of distress?” “I doubt it. Besides, they wouldn’t be looking for it. No one is ever stranded here. “Speaking of fire,” mused Tillie, returning to the old subject, “Daddy Red Johnson used to keep a few sticks in the upper corner. “Here they are!” she cried as her hand searched the corner. “Everybody liked Daddy Red Johnson.” There were tears in her voice. “He was a good man. Nobody would touch his things, not even after he was dead. “He always kept a box of matches right down here.” Her hand groped for a moment. Then such a shout of joy! “Here they are! Saved, Florence!” With trembling fingers she drew out a safety match and struck it on the box. It flared out cheerily, dispelling the dark. “Come on!” she cried. “We’ll carry this shanty to the beach. We’ll build a roaring fire before it and be all warm and dry before you know it.” As they tumbled out of the shanty, then tipped it over, something fell to the ground with a thud. It was a short handled axe. “I forgot the axe,” said Tillie, tucking it under her arm. “He used that for cutting his hole through the ice, Daddy Red Johnson did. Shouldn’t wonder if his fish line was here, too.” |
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