CHAPTER V PALE GREEN LIGHT
The little drama, in which Florence and Jeanne played major roles,continued.
Duncan's Bay is primeval. Not an abandoned shack marks its shores, not atree has been cut down. When darkness "falls from the wings of night"this bottle-green bay, reflecting the trees, shut in by the gloom of theforest, casts a spell over every soul who chooses to linger there.
It is a solitary spot. Six miles away, around a wind-blown, wave-washedpoint there are human habitations, none nearer. Little wonder, then, thatthe frail, blond-haired Jeanne should renew her pleading.
"Florence, let that thing go!"
The "thing" of course was a living creature caught on Florence's hook atthe end of the stout line.
"But Jeanne," the big girl remonstrated, "I _can't_ let him go!"
"Cut the line!" Jeanne was insistent.
"It cost two dollars. And that red and white spoon cost another dollar.Shall I throw three dollars into the lake?
"Besides," Florence began reeling in once more, "the thing's a fish, nota snake. There are no boa constrictors in America. He's just a big, oldnorthern pike. Looks like a snake, that's all.
"I--I'll bring him in," she panted. "You just take a good look."
She reeled in fast. The fish, at last weary of battle, came in without astruggle and, for one full moment lay there upon the surface of thewater. A magnificent specimen of his kind, he must have measured close tofour feet from tip to tail. His eyes and cruel teeth gave him a savagelook, but in that failing light his sleek, mottled sides were trulybeautiful.
"Wolf of the waters," Florence murmured. "Truly you do not deserve tolive! If a herring, gorgeous flash of silver, passes your way, there is amad swirl and his favorite pool knows him no more. The beautiful speckledtrout and the perch fare no better. Even little baby ducklings that sportabout on the surface are not safe from your cruel jaws. A swirl, afrantic quack, qua-a-ack, and he is gone forever. And yet," she mused,"who am I that I should set myself up as a judge of wild life?"
"Florence," Jeanne pleaded, "let him go! What do we want with him?"
"Why! Come to think of it, we couldn't really make much use of him."Florence laughed a merry laugh. "Must weigh twenty pounds."
"And if you put him in the boat he might bite you," Jeanne argued.
"Or break a leg with his tail." Florence laughed once more.
She flipped the line. The red and white spoon shot to right and left. Shedid it again. The fish turned. A third time the spoon rattled. There wasa swirl of white waters, then darkness closed in upon the spot where thefish had been.
"He--he's gone!" Jeanne gasped.
"Yes. I gave him his freedom." Florence lifted the red and white spoonfrom the water to send it rattling to the bottom of the boat. "But thinkof the picture he would have made! 'Pike caught by girl in Duncan's Bayon Isle Royale.' Can't you just see it?
"But after all," she mused as the darkness deepened, "I don't think somuch of that kind of publicity. If we could only have our pictures takenwith some innocent wild creature we have saved from destruction, how muchbetter that would be."
There was about this last remark an element of prophecy. But unconsciousof all this, Florence took up the oars and prepared for a moonlit rowback to the camping grounds.
"Listen!" She suddenly held up a hand for silence.
Across the narrow bay there ran a whisper. Next moment the glassy surfacewas broken by ten million ripples. At the same time a cloud covered themoon, and the world went inky black.
Directing her course more by instinct than sight, Florence sent her boatgliding right to the bottle necked entrance to the bay. Then the mooncame out.
For some time they sat in their tiny craft and stared in amazement.Beyond the entrance to Duncan's Bay lies a mile of jagged, rock-walledshore line. Against this wall waves were now breaking. As the two girlswatched, they saw white sheets of foam rise thirty feet in air to sprayone section of rocky wall only to rush on and on out to sea until itended in a final burst of fury far away.
"Well," Florence sighed, "we're here for the night, whether we like it ornot.
"I wonder--" her tone changed. "Wonder if Greta's back."
Greta was not back. As they grounded their boat on the sandy beach, nodancing sprite came to meet them. Florence cupped her hand for a loud"Whoo-hoo!"
"Whoo-hoo," came echoing back from the other shore. After that the woodsand waters were still. Only the distant sound of rushing waters againstrocky shores beat upon their ears.
"We'll build a rousing campfire," Florence said as she sprang ashore. "Ifshe's lost her way she'll see the light."
A small, dead fir tree offered tinder. The scratch of a match, then thefire flamed high. Larger branches of poplar and mountain ash gave asteadier blaze. "She's sure to see that," Florence sighed as she settleddown upon a log.
There was not long to wait. Greta had indeed caught sight of thatbursting flame. She had not, however, been lost. Truth is, she had neverbeen lost in her life. There are those who have the gift of location;they always know where they are. It was so with Greta.
"Girls! Oh, girls!" She came bursting through the bush. "The strangestthing! A violin! A phantom violin! I'm sure it was a phantom. Who elsecould be playing so divinely up there on that ridge at this hour of thenight? Such music!" She drew in a long breath. "Such music you neverheard!"
She began a wild dance about the fire that surely must have equaled anyperformance there in the brave days of long ago when only Indians came topitch their tents on this narrow camping ground.
"Now," said Florence as a broad smile overspread her face, "tell us whatreally happened up there on the ridge."
Greta did tell them. With the light of the fire playing upon her animatedfeatures, she told her story so convincingly that even Florence was morethan half convinced that Greenstone Ridge truly was haunted by the ghostof some violinist of enduring fame.
"And after that, one more strange thing," Greta went on. "I went racingheadlong down the trail until I almost pitched myself into the antlers ofa giant moose who hadn't heard me coming. That frightened me. I went headfirst down the ridge to tumble against a tree. When I picked myself up Iwas at the top of one more rocky cliff.
"I stood there panting," she took in a long breath. "I listened for themoose. They don't chase you, do they?"
"Not often, I guess." Florence threw fresh fuel on the fire. "Well, thisone didn't. But I was afraid he might. So I waited and listened." Gretapaused.
"It was dark by that time," she went on at last. "I looked down where youshould be, and saw nothing. I looked back at the ridge. It sort of curvesthere, and--" Again she took a long breath. "I saw a light, thin, palegreen light. It seemed to hover on the side of the ridge. I--it--itfrightened me. At first it seemed to move. 'It's coming this way!' I toldmyself. And you'd better believe my heart danced.
"But it didn't move. Just hung there against the rocks. So, pretty soon Iclimbed back up to the trail and ran, fast as I dared.
"Now," she sighed, "what do you think of that?"
"I think," Florence chuckled, "you have been seeing things!"
"And hearing them," Jeanne added.
"But you don't think--" Greta spoke in a sober tone. "You don't thinkthat music could have been played on the radio? That my ears picked itup?"
"No," Florence replied at once. "I think that's nonsense."
But the little French girl was not sure. She had heard of such things.Why doubt them altogether? Besides, here was a beautiful, gloriousmystery. What more could one ask?
"Greta, I envy you!" She threw her arms about the little musician. "Youare the discoverer of a great mystery. But we shall unravel this mysterytogether, you and I. Is it not so? _Mais oui!_ And Florence," she added,"our big, brave Florence, she shall protect us from all evil."
In the end Florence was to have a word or two to say about this. If therewere mysteries to solve, she must
play some more active part than merelythat of policeman.