Chapter XI: Hotcakes at Dawn

When a person is thrown with a stranger in an empty land he is sure to learn much of that other’s ways. It was so with Red Rodgers. He was destined to learn much regarding the true nature of that mysterious young person who called herself Berley Todd. One fact he learned at once: that she was fond of doing things in a dramatic manner. In her own mind she was ever on the stage. Red had asked her to tell of her beloved Isle Royale. She was weary, had been awake all night. She had been cold and wet. She was hungry. Surely this was no time for telling of a place she loved.

“A cabin,” she recited, “a fireplace, chairs, blankets. We have all these. And now for the last of all—things to eat.”

Lighting a candle that stood on a ledge beside the fireplace, she went into the kitchen of the cabin. Soon she was calling to Red.

Together they carried in two large tin boxes of what were quite evidently left-overs of the party camping there that summer.

“Crackers, dried beans, oatmeal, a little rice.” The girl named the packages as she drew them forth. “Tea, coffee. Hurrah! Some coffee and prepared pancake flour. Hotcakes at dawn!” She tossed the package to the ceiling and caught it as it came down. “What could be better than hot cakes and coffee at dawn?”

Glancing toward the window, Red discovered that she was right; dawn was breaking. But to his relief he saw that snow was still falling fast.

“If those fellows get on our trail,” he thought with a shudder, “they’ll keep on it until they get us. They’ve got to.”

Red brewed the coffee. The girl mixed the batter and fried the cakes.

The meal was eaten in silence. Red found himself in no mood for talk; nor did the girl.

“It—it’s like a communion,” he told himself with a gulp. He was sobered by the thought of the future that lay just before them.

“You know,” said the girl, as the last cup was drained, “since this thing had to happen, I am glad you are you.” A curious smile overspread her face.

“Thank—er—thanks,” Red stammered. “I’ll do my best to be myself.”

“And now,” said the girl, leading him to a place beside her on a rug near the hearth, “I’ll show you about Isle Royale.”

Dragging a quantity of ashes out on the smooth hearth, she busied herself for some time smoothing them out, drawing her finger through them here and dropping a pinch of them there.

“Now,” she sighed at last, “ashes are land, bare spaces are water. See this little pile here? That’s the island we are on. See, it’s in a narrow stretch of water. That’s Tobin’s Harbor. It’s about three miles long. See this one over to the right? That’s Rock Harbor. It’s much longer. Off to the left of Tobin’s Harbor is Duncan’s Bay. It may not matter. And it may. You can’t tell where we’ll end up.

“See that bit of a pile here? That’s Passage Island. There’s a lighthouse out there with people in it, a big light and a foghorn. Listen, you can hear that horn now.”

Red listened and to his waiting ears came the distant hoot of a giant foghorn.

“How simple it all is!” He heaved a sigh of relief. “All we have to do is to get out to the lighthouse before those fellows catch up to us.”

“Yes,” she sighed, “that’s all. But it’s four miles out there. This is the stormy season of the year. We have only a rowboat. And remember this—” Her tone was as solemn as a parson’s at a funeral. “Remember this: ‘Superior never gives up her dead!’”

“Is all that water you’ve left there Lake Superior?” Red was truly impressed.

“Yes, and a great deal more. Miles and miles and miles. Isle Royale is nearer Canada than the United States. It is not near enough to any place to do us much good in November. The lighthouse is our hope. But after the snow it will blow. I am almost sure of that. So, you see, that which was begun to-night may not be finished at once, my friend the Red Rover.

“And now—” Her eyes closed for a moment. “Now I would be glad to tell you of my island home. I love it as I do no other home. If danger did not threaten, I should dearly love to remain here, even now when everyone is gone.”

“Everyone?”

“There may be fishermen staying at the other end of the island. But that is forty-five miles away. Forty-five miles of wilderness, do you understand?”

“I understand,” said Red Rodgers. A new note had crept into his voice. He was beginning to sense the brave part this girl was playing.

“And now you must rest.”

He set about preparing a place for her on a broad seat before the fire.

“But you—” she protested.

“Oh, I’ll sleep with one eye open, here in a chair. As long as snow continues to fall, we are safe.”

“And when the sky clears you will call me?”

“Never fear.”

“While I sleep I will dream what we are to do next.”

“Success to your dreams.”

Turning his back on her, Red busied himself by drawing a crude map of the island modeled after her relief map of ashes.

“Going to be tough,” he whispered with a sigh. “Tough for both of us. But somehow we’ll make it. We’ve got to!”

After another look at the falling snow, he curled up for three winks. He slept them through, all unconscious of the commotion his disappearance had stirred up. The hundreds of columns printed about him in the papers all over the land, the scores of detectives on the trail of the kidnapers, the thousands of earnest persons in all walks of life who had volunteered to do all in their power to help bring him back—all this he would have found, had he known it, a matter for surprise and great bewilderment. For the Red Rover was, above all, a very humble and modest young man who loved doing things for their own sake, and who thought little of honor or great reward. That the world at large had been so greatly stirred by his disappearance he did not dream.