CHAPTER XXIII DON'T STAY TOO LONG
All that night it rained, a slow, steady downpour. The wind that forweeks had been driving the fire forward shifted. It was now driving thefire back against itself. Everyone agreed that the battle was won. Therewas great rejoicing on the island. The whole country received the gladreport by newspaper and radio.
Tim O'Hara, in his New York radio tower, at once got off a wire toFlorence.
"Congratulations. Stop. Have set your appearance on our program for next Tuesday. Stop. Ticket will await you at Houghton.
Signed, Tim O'Hara."
"He wants me to come to New York," Florence exclaimed. "New York," sherepeated softly. "He wants me to tell the story of our fight to save theisland, tell it on his Adventurer's Club radio program. Just think! Coastto coast! Millions of people will hear. Shall I go?"
"Go?" Dave roared. "Of course you'll go. Finest publicity in the worldfor our island. And think of the time you'll have!"
"And I shall go with you," said Jeanne.
"Sure! Why not?" Florence threw her arms about her. "No great occasionwould be complete without you."
The two pals did little else save eat and sleep on their way to New York.From time to time they discussed the mysterious boy in the crimsonsweater.
"He was a nice looking boy," Jeanne mused. "Not a bit like a firebug."
"No," Florence agreed. "Not a bit. I can't think he was one. All the sameI would like to know why he always ran away."
"Was there a firebug at all?" Jeanne asked.
"Probably no one will ever know. Many of the mysteries of this old earthare never solved."
"Take a taxi from the depot." This had been the order in Tim's letter.Florence took him at his word. After handing a grinning redcap a wholequarter, she stepped into one of those luxurious New York taxis, andsaid, "Hilton Hotel, please."
Then she settled back against the cushions and sighed, "Boy! This islife."
At the hotel desk Tim O'Hara's letter proved an open-sesame to all thatwas grand and luxurious. They were ushered to a room with delightfullylow, twin beds, delicately shaded light, spinet desk and even a radio.
Florence thought of their crowded quarters on the _Wanderer_ and sighed.
But not for long. To the accompaniment of soft music, breakfast wasserved in the great dining room below.
One more taxi and they were at the radio building. A moment later andthey looked into Tim O'Hara's beaming eyes.
"I am glad you could come!" he exclaimed. "I am sure you have a grandstory.
"And this is Jeanne." He gripped the little French girl's hand. "Any newdances?"
"Just one." Jeanne smiled.
"_Dance of the Flame_," Florence explained.
"Sounds great! But then," Tim added, "you can't dance on the radio."
"More's the pity," said Florence. "It is a glorious dance. Trulyfantastic and--and--"
"Yes, I see," said Tim O'Hara. "You really can't describe it. We shallhave it somehow, somewhere.
"But now," he was all business, "the other members of the cast are here.Step into my office."
There three men awaited them: a bronze-faced giant, a man of veryordinary appearance and a slim, wiry man with sharp black eyes. The firsthad been hunting lions in the heart of Africa, the second had beendriving dog teams in the "farthest north" and the third was a revenueman, who hunted down moonshine stills in the mountains of Kentucky. Eachhad known perils and adventures. Each, in his own way, was to tell hisstory.
"This is just a get-together," said Tim O'Hara when introductions hadbeen attended to. "We're going to work together for three days--and bythat I mean _work_. So we should know one another."
After that in a very informal manner each told of his experiences. WhenFlorence had heard the others she felt the least bit unimportant. Butwhen, with a word here and there from Jeanne and Tim, she had got trulywarmed up to her subject which, she laughingly explained, was rather ahot one (fighting fires) she realized that they all were listening withundivided interest.
"It wouldn't be a complete show at all without your part," Tim O'Haramurmured in her ear when the others were gone. "Your story is trulythrilling. And it has humor, interest and real heart-throbs. We'll playup those little fishing cabins and the old men who have been coming tothe island for so many years. You come back at two-thirty and we'll writethe script."
"Oh!" Florence exclaimed. "Must there be a script? Can't I just tell itin my own words."
"Your own words? Surely! But it must be put on paper. Come back attwo-thirty. You shall see it all worked out in a very grand manner." Hebowed them from the room.
"So this is New York?" Florence breathed as they once again foundthemselves on the sidewalk. "How thrilling!"
"Over one block is 5th Avenue," said Jeanne. "So very wonderful! Giftshops eight stories high. Everything!"
"Fifth Avenue, here we come!" Florence exclaimed, seizing Jeanne by thehand. Once they had discovered the broad avenue, so alive and gay, theywandered on and on. In one shop they bought a bright plaid neck-tie forDave, and in another still brighter dress material for Katie. In a musicshop around the corner Jeanne purchased a small statue of a very greatdancer.
"For my studio," she said with a gay laugh. "The place of my dreams."
"Ah yes," Florence thought with a sigh, "how much of all our lives ismade of dreams. And how very cold and lonely we would be without them."
This mood passed quickly. "Jeanne," she exclaimed, as a clock caught hereye, "we must have lunch and get back to that office!"
"Fried oysters!" said Jeanne as they seated themselves at a bright greentable. "Shoestring potatoes, coffee and lemon pie. Why not? This is NewYork."
Fried oysters it was and all the rest. Then a taxi whisked them away toTim O'Hara.
"Now," Tim said to Florence, as he leaned back in his chair to close hiseyes, "tell me all about it in greater detail."
"New--New York?" she stammered. "It--it's grand!"
"Not New York." His eyes flew open. "Tell me about Isle Royale." His eyesclosed again.
Florence did tell him. Told him in her own dramatic manner. From time totime he interrupted her to exclaim, "That was a close one--That'sgrand--Just grand--You mean you were trapped by the fire? They flew overyou and dropped the dog? A moose went after the dog? You heard him ki-yi?Say! That's a grand story!" At this his eyes popped wide open.
"But this boy in the crimson sweater," his eyes closed again. "Tell meabout him."
"He--he disappeared." Florence hesitated. "I wish we could find him. Heput up such a wonderful fight for that beautiful little island. He wasn'tthe firebug. Probably there wasn't any firebug. He knows we suspectedhim. I--I wish we could find him."
"We will." Tim's eyes were wide open now. "Why not?"
"Do you suppose we really could?"
"You'd be surprised." Tim leaned forward in his chair. "We pick all sortsof people right out of the air. As if we had a string on 'em.
"Little while back a man was telling about his adventures buyingunclaimed trunks at auction and trying to find their owners. One verymysterious case baffled him. He told about it over the air and what doyou think?"
"Wha-what?"
"Two days later he heard from the owner.
"You're going to ask a million people to send that boy in the crimsonsweater to you and to tell you his story. And they will send him. Someonesurely will.
"But now," continued Tim, "we'll write your script." For a half hour hepecked away at his typewriter. Then, with a sigh, he murmured, "A mightyfine story. That's all for now. Tomorrow in Studio Six we rehearse."
Four hours later the two girls stepped out on the brightly lightedstreets of America's greatest city. It was night. A slender, gray-hairedman, with stooping shoulders offered them an evening paper.
As Florence took the paper and dropped a nic
kel into his hand she couldnot help noting how bright his eyes were.
"Isn't New York wonderful?" she said in a deep voice full of emotion.
"Yes," the old man agreed. "It's wonderful when you're young. But don'tstay too long."
"Why--why not?" she was puzzled.
"New York takes you by the hand and whirls you 'round and 'round. It'svery wild and gay and it makes you drunk. But bye and bye--well," hesighed, "look at me. You'd never guess it but I was once a reporter onthat very paper you bought. It whirls you 'round and 'round." His voicecracked. "Don't stay too long, child. Don't stay too long."
"A reporter!" Florence exclaimed. "I knew a reporter. He went away to NewYork, Peter Kepple."
"Ah, yes," the old man sighed, "I knew him here. He died--let me see, twoyears ago. Don't stay too long, Miss."
Then his shrill old voice rose above the rush and roar of New York.
"Paper! Paper! Get your evening paper here."
When they were half a block away Florence seemed to hear him calling,"Don't stay too long." How long was too long? She did not know.