  Florence awoke with a start. She sat up abruptly, rubbing her eyes in a futile attempt to remember where she was. “I am—” she muttered. “This is—” A dull red glow met her eyes. Like a flash she knew. She and Tillie had started their second night on Goose Island. The red glow was their camp fire, burned low. She had been asleep for some time. “But that sound!” She was now fully awake. A loud throbbing beat in upon her eardrums. “It’s a boat! Some sort of motor boat!” she fairly screamed. “Tillie! Tillie! Wake up! There’s a boat!” Tillie did wake up. She sprang to her feet to stare into the darkness at a spot where a dot of red light was cutting its way through the night. “He’s passing!” she exclaimed. “It’s that boy in the ‘Spank Me Again.’ He has not seen our fire. We must scream.” Scream they did, fairly splitting their lungs. And with the most astonishing results. The crazy little craft gave vent to a series of sharp sput-sput-sputs. Then suddenly it went dead; the light disappeared. Night, dark and silent as the grave, hung over all. “We—we frightened him,” Tillie gasped. “He—he—went over. He may be hurt, may drown. We must save him!” “How?” “Swim.” Tillie was kicking off her shoes. Florence followed her example. Together they entered the chilling water to begin one more long swim, to the spot where the strange little motor boat had last been seen. “He’s hurt,” Tillie panted between strokes, “or he’d yell for help.” Florence thought this probable, and her heart chilled. In their eagerness for deliverance, had they caused another to lose his life? She redoubled her efforts. A dark bulk, lying close to the water, appeared before them. “The boat,” thought Florence, “it did not sink. There is hope.” She was right. As they reached the overturned boat, they found the Erie boy, in a semi-conscious condition and with a bad cut on his temple, clinging feebly to the stern. To assist him to a position across the boat’s narrow hull, then to push and pull the small craft ashore, was the work of an hour. By the time they reached the beach, the boy had so far regained his strength that he was able, with their assistance, to walk to their camp. A great fire was soon busy dispelling the cold, while clouds of steam rose from their drenched clothing. Florence bandaged the boy’s head; then, with all the skill of a trained nurse, she brought him fully back to life by chafing his hands and feet. “So—so that’s who it was?” he found words to gasp at last. “I thought it was—well, mebby I didn’t think at all. I just lost control and she went over. Good thing you were here.” “It was.” There was conviction in Tillie’s tone. “I always knew that thing would kill you. And it’s pretty near done it.” “Mighty close,” he agreed. “But why are you here?” he asked in some amazement, as he took in their crude accommodations. “Because we can’t get away. We’re marooned,” Florence explained. She proceeded to relate in a dramatic manner their strange adventure. “The beasts!” exclaimed the boy. “How could they?” “Guess that gets asked pretty often these days,” said Florence soberly. “Question is,” mused the boy, “how are we to get away?” “Your boat—” began Florence. “Soaked. Engine dead. Besides, she carries only one person. Positively. Couldn’t even hold one of you on my lap.” “We’ve fixed up a sort of boat, wreck of an old dory,” suggested Tillie. “Will she float?” “I think so.” “Fine! Give you a tow. “Tell you what!” The boy stood up. “We’d better get my motor and bring it to the fire. Dry it out by morning. Got a three gallon can of gas. Be away with the dawn.” The motor was soon doing its share of steaming by the fire. “Got some rations?” the boy asked. “Of course you haven’t. But I have. Regular feast, all in cans. Always carried ’em for just such a time as this. Boiled chicken in one can, chili con carne in another, and a sealed tin of pilot biscuits.” He brought this unbelievable feast to the place before the fire. When the chicken and the chili had been warmed, they enjoyed a repast such as even the millionaire’s son had seldom eaten. “Well,” he sighed, as the last morsel disappeared, “as it says in ‘The Call of the Wild,’ ‘He folded his hands across his feet before the fire, allowed his head to drop forward on his breast and fell fast asleep.’” “Oh no!” exclaimed Tillie. “Let’s not try to sleep. Let’s tell ghost stories till morning.” “Agreed!” the boy seconded with enthusiasm. “And the one who tells the best one wins this.” He laid a shining gold piece before them on a rock. The contest was carried forward with spirit and animation. But Sun-Tan Tillie, with her weird stories of that north country was easily winner. “Now we shall see how it performs,” said the boy, rising stiffly as day began to dawn. He lifted his motor from its place before the fire, and carried it to his boat. Five minutes had not elapsed before it began to sput-sput merrily. “Have you home for breakfast,” he predicted. He made good his word. Just as Jeanne and Turkey Trot, after one more night of fruitless search, sat down to their oatmeal, bacon, and coffee, two well soaked girls broke in upon them. By dint of diligent bailing they had forced their crazy dory, towed by the equally crazy “Spank Me Again,” to carry them home. |
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