CHAPTER XXV OUT OF THE AIR
As Florence sat in a shadowy corner of the stage waiting for the companyto gather and start their march to the banquet hall, she was thinking, "Iwonder if he heard. If he did, shall I hear from him? Or will the mysteryof the boy in the crimson sweater remain unsolved?"
She was roused from these wonderings by Jeanne's voice in her ears,"Come, _ma cherie_! It is time to go."
To Florence, who had lived so much of her life in out-of-the-way places,their banquet hall with its blinking candles, snow-white linen andglistening silver was a place of great enchantment.
They were all there: Tim O'Hara and his two bright-eyed youngsecretaries, the harpist in her red waist, the little Spaniard who playedthe guitar, the entire cast and several others.
They were all scanning the bill of fare when there was a commotion at thedoor.
"You can't come in," a waiter was saying.
"But I must come in," a youthful voice insisted. "They called me in outof the air and here I am."
"Out--out of the air!" Florence exclaimed, springing to her feet.
At that instant the intruder broke from the head waiter's grasp and therehe stood, the boy in the crimson sweater.
Tim O'Hara sized up the situation at a glance. Next instant he was on hisfeet, "Ladies and gentlemen." There was a thrill in his voice. "I havealways insisted that we bring them in from the air. Now here is visibleproof. Less than an hour ago Miss Huyler broadcast an appeal. It was tothe boy in the crimson sweater. And now here he is."
Turning to the boy he said, "Whoever you are and whatever your name, youare a welcome guest at our party." At that he ushered him to a place atFlorence's side.
The boy's story was soon told. He had been sent to the island by theconservation editor of a New York magazine. His task had been todetermine, as far as possible, how many wild moose were on the island.Some seventy or more had been taken from the island. Were there stillhundreds or thousands? All those interested in wild life wanted to know.
"When the fires started," he went on, "I thought of volunteering as afire-fighter. But I had to have the count of moose for the next issue ofthe magazine. I couldn't back out on the job I'd been sent to do. So Icontinued to count moose.
"At last," he hesitated, "well, you know how it is. You sometimes feelthings."
"Yes," Florence agreed, "and sometimes feel them wrong."
"But this time I felt them right." He laughed. "I was suspected of doingsomething terrible. I was suspected of setting fires. How horrible! Isetting fires! I who have always worshipped trees as God's firsttemples?"
"But how were we to know?" Florence exclaimed. "We--"
"You couldn't know," the boy broke in. "Nor could you help my beingangry.
"Well," he sighed, "I decided to play the game out to the end. So Idodged you again and again.
"The end came," he took a long breath, "when Birch Island was in peril.That island had been my home. I loved it. And I loved the 'PhantomFisherman' as you called him. He was my friend and that island was hishome too. So you see," he laughed low, "I had to come out in the open andfight beside you. I was sure you'd never know me without my sweater. Whenthe fight was over I put the sweater on where you could see me. Then Ivanished."
"And you--" Florence did not finish, just sat staring at him.
"I caught a small boat to the mainland, prepared my report, and came toNew York just in time to find you here. Which is worth all my trouble,"he added with a touch of gallantry.
"Then you--"
"I meant to give myself up," he added.
"What I didn't know was that you'd call for me from the air.
"That," he went on after a brief silence, "was the finishing touch.
"And now," his tone changed, "something tells me this is a grand feed andI'm keeping you from enjoying it. Suppose we proceed. Don't let me spoilyour celebration."
Enjoy it they did to the full. When it was over they all went troopingback to the theater for the final performance.
To her surprise, Florence found herself going through her act the secondtime like a seasoned actor. As her voice went out over the air, no onelistening in would have guessed that she was just another girl from thetall timber of Isle Royale.
When Jeanne had repeated her dance of the flames and the curtain was rundown for the last time, the two girls said goodbye to that jolly,friendly company and to their new friend in the red sweater. After thatthey strolled out to the brightly lit streets of New York at night.
"Look at the people," Florence exclaimed.
"They act as if they did not mean to go home till morning."
When they neared their hotel they heard a cracked voice calling, "Extra!Extra! All about--"
"There!" Florence exclaimed, "There's our old newsboy. I must buy onemore paper."
As she took the paper she slipped a silver half dollar into his bonyhand. He stared at her for a moment, then coming close he said in a lowvoice, "Don't stay too long, child. Don't stay too long."
"He's right," she said to Jeanne, as they entered their room a momentlater. "Look! It is midnight. New York has been whirling us 'round and'round."
"Ah, yes," Jeanne sighed. "But it has been glorious."
"Yes," Florence agreed. "For all that, I'm glad we're starting back toIsle Royale and the _Wanderer_ tomorrow. I want to hear the wash of thewaves on the rocky shore and the seagull's scream. I want to waken in thenight and catch the hoarse hoot of the fog horn on Passage Island. I wantto smell the cool damp of balsam and spruce trees and watch the sun godown over Green Stone Ridge. That's life for me."
"Yes, _ma cherie_," Jeanne agreed. "That _is_ life, but not for yourlittle Jeanne, not for a long, long time to come."
"Why? What's the matter?" Florence was startled.
"A letter from France," Jeanne explained. "It has followed me days anddays. Now it has caught up with me. I must return to France at once. Soyou see, my dear, it is goodbye. I go east and you go west. Is it notever so?
"But I shall come back," her spirits rose. "When the tulips nod gaily andthere is the scent of lilacs in the air I shall return. And then--_Oh,la--la!_ Who knows what will happen?"
Next morning on the deck of Jeanne's ship they clasped hands.
"Goodbye, Florence."
"Goodbye, Jeanne."
"Shall we meet again?"
"Who knows?"
And so they parted. Shall they meet again? We can but repeat Florence'swords, "Who knows?" If they do and it is our good fortune to learn oftheir further adventures you shall read of them in a book to be called,_Mystery in Red_.
Transcriber's Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original printed text--this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.
--In the text versions, italic text is delimited by _underscores_.
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