Third Warning

  CHAPTER XXII STRANGE COMRADES IN BATTLE

  When Florence learned of Jeanne's exciting discovery on Birch Island shewas for going there at once.

  "You saw him!" she exclaimed. "The boy in the crimson sweater? Thefirebug?"

  "Yes," Jeanne replied quietly. "The boy in the crimson sweater."

  "What is he like? Does he look dangerous? What if--"

  Florence shot a dozen more questions at Jeanne. Strangely enough, thelittle French girl was quite vague in her answers, much more so than theoccasion warranted. And, when the question of her accompanying Florencearose, she pleaded a headache.

  "It's only a two hour's run in a small motor boat," Florence said toDave. "You have another wait of several hours?"

  "That's right."

  "Then suppose I hire the lodge fishing boat and get Indian John to run meover here?"

  "O.K. by me. You might take Katie with you. But watch your step! If thisfellow is really a firebug, he may be dangerous."

  "I'll watch," Florence was off.

  Arrived at Birch Island, they found the fisherman's cottage just asJeanne had left it. But when, after a silent march down the island, theycame to the spot where the log shelter had stood, they discovered that itwas gone.

  "Every trace of it," Florence exclaimed.

  No, this was not quite true. Dry moss had been strewn over the spot uponwhich it had stood. When this was dragged away, they found a smooth, hardsurface which once had been an earthen floor.

  "Jeanne was not dreaming." Florence looked about her as if expecting themysterious boy to appear. "There has been a shelter here. But now it'sgone."

  "Easy to move," said Indian John. "Take 'em down logs. Put 'em in boat.Row away, that's all."

  "Yes, or just throw the logs into the lake and let them float away," saidKatie.

  For some time they stood there in silence. At last Florence said, "I amnot Jeanne and not a gypsy, but she says there is always a third warningand so there shall be."

  Imitating Jeanne, she wrote her warning on birch bark. It read:

  "The Gypsy's third warning. And the last. A last chance to clear yourself. Once we leave Birch Island, we shall set a company of fire-fighters on your trail.

  Signed, The Gypsy's Friend."

  After pinning this note to a tree with the aid of three long thorns, shewas prepared to follow her companions back to the fisherman's cabin.

  It was a silent and mystified Florence who walked slowly back. All thathad happened appeared to prove that she was right. This boy wished tohide. Why, unless he were doing wrong? And what was more probable thanthat he was setting fires? And yet-- Why had Jeanne been so silent, soreluctant to tell all?

  As they at last stood again on the small fisherman's dock, Florencelooked at Indian John's jet black hair and smiled.

  "John," she said, "you are rapidly growing gray. There are white ashes inyour hair."

  It was true. Fine white specks of ash were slowly drifting down from thesky.

  "The threat is still with us," the girl murmured.

  Nor, on this day, was it long in making itself known. A brisk wind,blowing off the island, began bringing in an uncomfortable feeling ofheat. Then, quite suddenly, like battling troops coming out of thetrenches, a long line of flames appeared at the crest of a low ridge nota mile from Birch Island.

  "Florence!" Katie exclaimed. "It is terrible. This beautiful island willburn unless--"

  "Unless what?" Florence asked eagerly.

  "Unless we can save it."

  "How?"

  "There are many birch trees, not so many balsams. Balsam needles willcatch from sparks. Birch leaves will not. If we cut away the balsams andthrow them into the water--"

  "We must try," Florence broke in. "All this," her gaze swept the smallisland, "must not be destroyed.

  "John," she said, turning to the Indian, "run the boat to a safe spot andanchor it. Come back in the skiff. We must all do our best."

  "Perhaps," she thought grimly a moment later, "that boy in the crimsonsweater will be smoked out like an owl in a hollow tree."

  Very little she knew about the truth of her prophesy. Not knowing, shedragged a dull ax from the fisherman's cabin and began doing her bit tosave Birch Island.

  It was a battle indeed. As the wind increased and the fire crept closernot ashes alone, but tiny, glowing sparks fell at their feet.

  Whacking away at the trunks of small spruce trees, dragging them to thewater's edge, then whacking and dragging again, Florence never faltered.Grim, grimy, and perspiring, hating her dull ax, she toiled doggedly on.One thought was uppermost in her mind, this battle, perhaps their last,must be won.

  And then she received a sudden shock. A boy stood beside her. Taller thanshe, he smiled down at her. He was dressed in high boots and corduroys.His blue, plaid shirt was open at the neck. In his hand he carried an axwith a razor-like edge. She had never seen him before.

  "Come on in," she invited.

  "What are you doing, may I ask?" He smiled again.

  "We are saving this island," she fairly snapped. "If--if we get all thebalsams out it won't burn."

  "Say! That--that's an idea!" His face brightened like a sky after astorm.

  "I'll cut. You drag 'em off," he said shortly.

  After that for a full hour it was cut and drag, cut and drag, a seeminglyendless task. And the fire grew hotter every moment.

  Not even the girl's strenuous endeavors could keep her from wonderingabout that boy. Who was he? Where had he come from? Why was he here?

  "He works like one who is defending his own home," she told herself.

  Strangely enough there was something vaguely familiar about hismovements. "As if I had seen him before. But I can't have."

  Then a strange and mystifying thing happened, as the boy bent over topick up his ax which had slipped from his aching fingers, a small squareof white fluttered from his pocket to the ground. He was quick inretrieving it but not quick enough. In one corner of this girl'shandkerchief Florence had read the initials, "J. E."

  "Jeanne's handkerchief," she whispered to herself with sudden shock."Where did he get it and why does he keep it?" Strangely enough, at thatmoment, all unbidden, three words came into her mind, "The Gypsy'swarning." Then the stern business of the moment claimed her entireattention.

  The last, slim end of the island was closest to the fire. The heat becameall but unbearable. Twice the boy's cotton shirt began to smoke. At lasthe drew it off, and dipped it in water, to put it on again.

  Then came the moment when the last balsam tree toppled into the water.

  "Come on," he grabbed Florence's arm. "We gotta get out o' here quick."

  They did get out quick.

  When at last Florence reached her skiff where Katie and Indian John wereanxiously waiting, to her astonishment she saw the strange boy go racingaway.

  "Wait!" she called. "Come back."

  Did he hear? It seemed he must. But he raced straight on.

  "We'll just row out a little where the heat is not so bad," Florencesuggested. "Then we'll wait and see what happens."

  This they did. The moment when the raging furnace reached the water'sedge, then came to a sudden halt, was a glorious one indeed.

  Florence was watching with all her eyes when, of a sudden, she seemed tohear oarlocks creaking. At first, looking out over the smoke-cloudedwater she saw nothing. Then she caught the shadowy outline of a smallboat moving out on the water.

  "Must be that boy," she told herself. "But where is he going?"

  The answer came to her at once. Beyond him was the outline of a smallpower boat. He was rowing toward that.

  Strangely enough, just as he reached the motor boat's side, a current ofair lifted the smoke and everything stood out clearly.

  "It _is_ that boy," Florence said aloud. "But what's he doing?"

  "Standin
g up in his row-boat," said Katie.

  "Putting on a sweater. A crimson sweater!" Florence was ready to fallfrom the boat in her excitement. "He--he's that boy, the boy in thecrimson sweater. And how he has fought this fire!

  "And that motor boat!" she exploded again. "It's the one Jeannie sayscarries the Phantom Fisherman."

  Then, as if a curtain had been dropped, the smoke fell hiding the boy inthe crimson sweater, the Phantom and all. Was Florence sorry? She couldnot tell.

  She did not know it at that moment, but this was the last time she was tosee either the Phantom or the boy in the crimson sweater on Isle Royale.

  "It's the end," Florence thought, as they went chugging back towardTobin's Harbor. "The wind is really shifting. It will drive the fire backupon itself." Even as she thought this, cold drops of rain struck hercheek. Rolling up from across the lake a real rainstorm, the first inweeks, was on its way.

  Two hours later, drenched to the skin but joyously happy, the littleparty arrived at Tobin's Harbor.

  Late that night, the great log cabin used as a lounge for the lodge wascomfortably crowded with people. The little fisherman's wife was there.One child was asleep in her lap, another played at her side. On her facewas a look of joy.

  "Listen!" she was saying to the old man near her, "how it rains!" Greatsheets of rain were beating against the window panes. "A northeast wind,"she added in a whisper, "the fires are over. Our homes and our islandsare safe."

  This was the joyous feeling in every heart. That was why they were there.Drawn together by an invisible bond of common interest and friendship inhope and in despair, they had gathered to celebrate.

  In the corner, an impromptu trio--piano, cello and violin--began playing,_Over the Waves_.

  As the music rose and fell, as the sparks from the driftwood fire leapedtoward the sky, Florence thought that no moment in her whole life hadbeen as joyous as this.

  "Jeanne," she exclaimed, "you must dance. Dance to the patter of rain onthe roof."

  "Yes," Jeanne agreed almost eagerly, "I shall dance. I have beenpracticing a new dance quite in secret."

  "A new dance," exclaimed one of the musicians, "what is it?"

  "_Dance of the Flames_," said Jeanne.

  "Good! We have the very thing, an Indian dance to the fire god--you shalldance to our music."

  A few moments later, after the lights had been dimmed, when the flamesfrom great logs in the broad fireplace leaped high and the strains of aweird Indian dance rose from the corner, a slender figure clad ingarments of orange and red, with two long scarfs streaming behind, camedancing into the room.

  It would be hard to describe the dance that followed. Only the littleFrench girl could have so caught the movement and seeming spirit offlames. Now she was a low fire creeping stealthily upon some statelyspruce tree. And now, urged on by some mischievous wind, she went rushingforward. And now, by a trick performed with the scarfs, she appeared torise straight in air as the flames rushed to the very top of the tree.

  When at last, quite exhausted, she flung herself down at Florence's side,there came a burst of applause that would have done credit to a muchlarger gathering.

  Katie arrived with a great pot of delicious hot chocolate and a pan ofcakes. They ate and drank and then, led by a very pious old cottager,sang a hymn of thanks to the God who, with their aid had saved theirisland for them and for their children, years on end.

  "Jeanne," Florence whispered, as they groped their way back to the boat,"it is for such times as these that we live."

  "Ah, yes," the little French girl agreed, "for such times as these."

  Just then Florence caught the sound of a voice that caused her to start."Ya dese fires dey will be over now. Dis is de end we is been waiting forso long."

  At that Florence did a strange thing. Rushing up to the aged fishermanwho had spoken she said, "You are the man!"

  "Ya, I is de man," the fisherman agreed, "but what man, this is dequestion?"

  "Twice I heard you say the fires were being set."

  "Ya, it may be so."

  "Why did you say that? Was it true?"

  "Perhaps ya. Perhaps no," was the strange answer, "dese is been hardtimes. Might be we old men think too many t'ings." At that the old mandisappeared as silently as usual into the night, leaving the girl withher own thoughts.