Chapter XI: 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.