Third Warning

  CHAPTER XXI SECOND WARNING

  In the meantime, driven from her sun bath by that same storm, Jeanne hadbegun worrying about the safety of her friends.

  "Must be getting pretty wild out there," Dave said, as he tried to seethrough the driving fog.

  "Do you think they would go far?" Jeanne asked anxiously.

  "You know Florence," was the reply. "She'd take a chance."

  Turning to a fishing guide on the dock he said, "Where are the bestspots?"

  "For lake trout fishing? Blake's Point and Five Foot."

  "And neither is protected from storms?"

  "I'll say not," the man laughed hoarsely. "Blake's Point reaches out intoLake Superior like a pointing finger. Five Foot is a clean mile fromanywhere."

  "Would it do any good to go out and look for them?" Dave asked.

  "In this fog?" the man laughed again. "Not a bit. Never find them.

  "Oh, they're probably O.K.," he consoled. "They're a sturdy pair. They'dmake a point on one of the small islands. Plenty of driftwood everywhere.With a good fire and moss for a bed they'll get on very well."

  "And there are narrow channels between the small islands," said Dave."Storms don't hit there. They may come sneaking in along the shore anytime."

  Loaded with supplies, the _Iroquois_ arrived alongside the _Wanderer_ atdusk. Captain Frey was on board.

  "Some of these supplies," he said, "go to Florence Bay. That's abouttwenty-five miles up the north shore. The _Iroquois_ can't get in there.We have a hundred fire-fighters there. They've been living on salt porkand beans for two days. How about going there tonight?" he asked Dave.

  "We--we can do it," was Dave's prompt response. He was thinking ofFlorence and Katie. But his first duty was to those hungry men.

  "If those girls don't show up by dawn," he said to the guide, "get outyour boat and look them up. I'll stand the expense."

  "O.K.," was the prompt response, "you can depend on me."

  "I know that," Dave replied heartily.

  An hour later, well loaded with supplies, the _Wanderer_ stole out intothe night. From time to time as they moved slowly down the channelbetween small islands and at last around Blake's point, they gave longblasts on their siren. The only response was the scream of a seagull orthe wail of the wind.

  The pitching of the boat made rest impossible, so, encased in sweaters,blankets and a huge oilskin coat, Jeanne sat huddled on deck, feeling thecold damp of spray on her cheeks, and wondering about the fate of her twogood pals.

  Shortly after midnight, guided by the light of a forest fire, theyslipped into a narrow bay, there to be given an uproarious welcome by ahundred hungry men.

  "We'll wait the night out here," was Dave's decision. "There are suppliesfor McCargoe's Cove on board. We'll drop them off on the way back. Andyou--" there was an extra note of friendliness in his voice as he spoketo the little French girl, "you better get some sleep."

  Jeanne's beauty-rest that night was a short one. However, her hours ofdreaming in the sun the previous day stood her in good stead and she wasup with the sun. Early as it was she found the _Wanderer_ in motion.

  After serving the crew with coffee and hot cakes, she came on deck towatch the shore line slipping by.

  It was still early when the boat began sliding into McCargoe's Cove. Atthe entrance of this cove was one of the most entrancing little islandsJeanne had ever seen.

  "Oh, Dave!" she exclaimed. "Please drop me off in the dory and let mevisit that island until you come back this way!"

  "Sure! Be glad to." Dave signaled for a stop. "They call it Birch Island.It's a beauty."

  As she came close to the island in her small boat, Jeanne assured herselfthat here was a place of great enchantment.

  White birches, evenly spaced and reaching for the sky, grew to the verywater's edge. Mingled with these were hundreds of fern-like balsams.

  A single fisherman's cottage, built of weather beaten logs, stood closeto the shore. Silent and seemingly deserted, it told of another day.

  That this cabin had not been long deserted, Jeanne was not slow indiscovering. True, save for a few rusty cans of pepper, ginger and otherspices, there was no food on the narrow shelves. But the frying pan,tea-kettle and coffee pot still shone brightly.

  Leaving the cabin, the little French girl wandered down a narrow paththat ran the length of the island. It was not a long walk. She was soonat the far end of the island. There, to her surprise, she discovered asecond cabin. Perhaps one might say it was only a shelter. Built ofdriftwood logs, it had but three sides and a roof. The front was enclosedonly by a mosquito-bar canopy.

  When Jeanne had looked within she backed hurriedly away. She was, shethought, intruding on someone's privacy. A few pots and pans hung againstone wall, while on the opposite side, in considerable disarray, weregarments, quite evidently a man's. From the nature and color of theseclothes she concluded the man must be from some city and quite a youngman.

  She was not long lacking in proof of this theory. Even as she stoodthere, the low thud of footsteps reached her. With a voiceless cry and asoundless leap, she was away in the bush.

  She had escaped. Yet curiosity compelled her to linger for a peeping lookthrough the bushes.

  What she saw startled her no end. A tall, good-looking youth of uncertainage stood before the shelter. His gaze wandered from place to place. "Hesuspects something," the girl told herself as her heart skipped a beat.

  And then she barely avoided a gasp. She had, for the first time, notedhis manner of dress.

  "A crimson sweater!" she breathed. "The--the youth in the crimsonsweater."

  Had she found any reason for questioning her judgment in this case itwould not have been for long. Of a sudden, the youth glanced down at hisfeet then, without a backward look, dashed away into the bush.

  Surprised and startled, Jeanne held her ground. For all this, her heartwas beating a pretty tattoo against her ribs. Where had this boy gone?Would he return? And if he did what should she do? Her first thought wasto slip swiftly and silently away. And yet--she recalled her firstwarning, dropped from the airplane. He had not heeded the warning, atleast had not come out into the open and proved himself innocent. Would asecond warning help? She dared hope it might.

  With fingers that trembled in spite of her best efforts to control them,she drew a stub of a pencil from her jacket pocket, pulled a square ofbirch bark from a tree to serve as paper, then wrote in scrawled words:

  "_Second warning_: You are suspected of a terrible crime. If you are innocent you will come out and clear yourself. Gypsies never forget.

  Signed, Gypsy Jeanne."

  Why had Jeanne signed this second warning? Perhaps she could not havetold. Was it because the youth in the crimson sweater seemed a ratherromantic figure?

  With knees that all but refused to support her, she moved slowly towardthe shelter. Once there, she slipped inside, placed the note on a small,hand-made table, weighted it down with a stone, then, springing away likea startled deer, went racing toward the fisherman's cabin and her boat.

  Arrived at the small dock she found all serene as before. Some small birdwhistled at her from a tree. A pine squirrel chattered at her. For amoment she stood there thinking. Why had the young man run away? He hadseen something. What had it been? In a twinkle she had the answer, herhandkerchief was gone. "Must have lost it and my initials were in thecorner," she thought, a little startled.

  After that, shoving off in her boat, she rowed to the opposite shores,hid in a narrow cove and waited until Dave's return, then climbed aboardand rode away without a word concerning her adventure.

  Dawn came on the barren rock that had saved Florence and Katie from thestorm. They were awakened by wild screams. These were uttered by a hostof angry gulls demanding to know who had invaded their favorite roostingplace during the night.

&nb
sp; Breakfast of fish and gull's eggs, a few bright hours of watching thewaves lose their threat, then once more they were on the water.

  Two hours of hard, double rowing against the wind, a line out for troutand two catches--one a beauty--then they were entering the Passage Islandharbor they had missed before.

  Exclaimed over and welcomed by the lighthouse keeper's smiling wife, theywere fed on roast beef and baked potatoes and brown gravy, plied withquestions, and at last taken aboard a neat little motor craft thatcarried them back to Tobin's Harbor and their astonished friend who hadall but given them up as lost.

  "See!" exclaimed Katie, true to her promise. "We have been fishing. Andjust look what we caught. A whopper!"

  A whopper indeed it was--thirty-seven pounds by the scales--easily thebest fish of the season. Was Florence proud? No end of it. There was,however, little time for strutting. A few moments of triumph and herinsistent mind was demanding, "What of the future?"

  "Where is the _Wanderer_?" she asked.

  "Somewhere on the north shore," was the answer. "Make yourselfcomfortable. They should be back before dark."

  In two big chairs before a driftwood fire the girls dozed the hours away.And so ended one more happy adventure that might not have been so happyafter all, had it not been for Lady Luck's kindness and Katie's good,strong arms.