Chapter XVI: Who Rides a Moose

The small hydroplane was back at the dock. The captain had said, “We have done what we could. We can only hope for the best.” A picture of woe, Jeanne sat on the narrow dock. In an effort to save a good pal she had sacrificed her beloved Plumdum. She did not regret the sacrifice if only it saved her friend. But would it?

At times she felt an all but overpowering desire to dash away over the trail in the vain hope of passing the fiery barrier. Twice she rose to carry out the mad plan. Twice she resumed her seat on the dock.

When she rose for the third time the captain said, “Come on. Hop in. We’ll fly over and see what’s happened.”

They did fly. And they did see. Jeanne had marked the spot where Florence had stood. It was between three great rocks. Already the fire had come that far. Three times they circled. No trace of their lost comrades did they find. What had happened? Would they ever know? Jeanne sank back into her seat.

She did not remain so for long. Of a sudden she sat up to clutch the pilot and to scream in his ear, “Captain Frey please circle back over that bare knob of rock.”

“Right.” The captain turned the wheel.

A crimson spot on that bare flat rock had caught Jeanne’s attention. This, she reasoned must be the boy in the crimson sweater. He it had been that had lured her good friend Florence into the fire trap. Well, he should pay for that. He should have a warning this very moment. Deftly forming a bit of string and her handkerchief into a tiny parachute, she attached a bit of greenstone rock to it, then clutched it between her knees while she scribbled a note. This note read:

“You are suspected of setting these fires. If you are guilty you shall
be caught. We are on your trail. _Gypsies never forget._”

Binding this note to the greenstone rock she waited. The plane soared lower and lower. They would pass over the rock at a hundred feet. Accustomed to judge the speed of planes, she leaned far over and waited. Then, as she found herself all but looking into the eyes of the mysterious youth, she allowed the tiny parachute to go drifting away.

Watching, she saw the white spot dropping lower and lower. “Good! He sees it!” she exclaimed, “He can’t miss it.” Then she whispered low, “The gypsies’ first warning.”

It was with trembling fingers that Florence unbound the pocket on Plumdum’s collar. Together she and Mike studied the crude map which Captain Frey had drawn.

“Let’s see,” the girl murmured. “That gap between fires must be in that direction.” She pointed toward a low ridge.

“No,” Mike corrected. “This way more.” He was looking at his compass. “We better scram. Dat note says no time to lose.”

“But, Tony? What about him?” the girl protested.

“Oh, Tony,” the boy’s brow wrinkled. Well enough Florence knew the bond of undying friendship between these two boys.

“Oh, Tony.” There was a forced note of cheerfulness in Mike’s voice. “Tony’s a Dago. He’s made out of tin cans, old asbestos an’ other scrap. He wouldn’t burn.” The laugh that followed was far from real.

Florence was touched. She swallowed a tear, swayed a little, then said simply,

“Al-all right, let’s go.” And what else was there to do?

“We’ll let out a yell now and then,” said Mike.

Gathering Plumdum into her ample arms, Florence led the way.

Their way ran across the dried-up bog. The ground was soft. For some distance their footprints remained plainly marked. At last these prints were lost on the rocky slopes beyond.

Now and again Mike paused to shout, “Yo-ho!”

Only the ridge echoed back faintly, “Yo-ho!” and yet more faintly, “Yo-ho!” Mike’s feet seemed to drag but he kept doggedly on.

“If I stay behind,” he was thinking, “she’ll stay too. An’ that won’t do. She’s worth the two of us.”

They came at last to a spot where, near the crest of the ridge, they were between two fires. The heat here was intense, almost scorching. Plumdum whined piteously.

“Come on,” Florence urged. “It’s our only chance.”

“I—I can’t,” Mike moaned. “It’s me pal, Tony. I—I gotta go back.”

“You can’t,” Florence hissed, seizing his arm. “Not now. You’re going on if I have to drag you.”

“Oh, all right, I’ll come,” Mike replied miserably.

Fifteen minutes later they were past all danger. On the crest of a higher ridge, where there were no trees, only rock, and where a cool breeze fanned their parched cheeks, they watched the fire roaring on beneath them.

“Ton-Tony!” A veritable roar of anguish escaped Mike’s lips.

To their unbounded astonishment there came an answer, “Here! Here I am! What you t’ink?”

“I knew it!” Mike broke into a roar of laughter. “It’s Tony. My Tony. Didn’t I tell you? You can’t burn up a Dago like him!”

Unashamed the two boys embraced each other. A moment later, with Plumdum yip-yipping his delight at their heels, the three of them danced a jig atop a great, flat rock.

Once more Mike went into the lead by declaring, “We’d better scram.”

And scram they did. Following the ridge until they were well beyond the fire line, they came at last upon an ancient trail leading down. Turning they went racing down this trail at a speed that must have spelled disaster to a less hardy trio.

Fifteen minutes later they burst out upon the shores of silent waters.

“Good old Rock Harbor,” Florence breathed, almost as a prayer of thanksgiving.

On the dock at the head of that same harbor a half hour later Jeanne sat in the depths of despair. Florence was gone. Plumdum was gone. What could she do?

Of a sudden, from the distance she caught a familiar sound, the shrill barking of a small dog.

“Plumdum!” she exclaimed springing to her feet. “It must be. There is no other such dog on the island.”

It was a wild looking Jeanne who burst through the brush to greet her lost friends a short time later. Her dress was torn, her hair was flying wild, but her eyes shone with a glorious light.

“Plumdum! Florence!” she screamed, gathering the dog in her arms and being in turn gathered in by Florence.

It was only over a rich “Mulligan” stew prepared by Captain Frey’s cook that Tony’s story was told.

“I saw you go down,” he said to Florence. “An’ heard yer breath go out. I thought, ‘That moose will get her fer sure.’”

“And so he would have,” Captain Frey agreed. “A moose has hoofs that are like steel chisels.”

“So-o,” Tony breathed, continuing his story, “I dropped on his back. Swell luck. I grabbed his antlers. Then I ducked down to miss the branches. And say-ee!” he breathed. “Talk about speed! He was worse’n an airplane.

“And then—” he paused.

“Then what, ye dummie?” Mike demanded.

“It ain’t nice. I hate t’ tell ye.” Tony took in a long breath.

“Did he go toward the dry swamp?” Florence asked. Tony nodded.

“Then I know,” the girl said with a shudder, “the moose went into the peat bog that’s on fire.”

“An’ stuck there fer a minute.” Tony agreed. “I swing off on a low limb of a tree. Then I scram. Of course, I don’t know but I kin guess what come of Mr. Moose.” He heaved a heavy sigh.

“But, Tony,” Florence said after a moment, “how did you know which way the gap in the fire wall was?”

“Found yer tracks crossin’ t’ dry swamp,” said Tony with a grin. “‘They’re goin’ straight,’ I says to meself. ‘That means they know which way t’ go.’ And you did.”

“And I’m glad,” Florence put in warmly.

“That was great!” Captain Frey exclaimed.

“Wind has changed,” the captain announced a short time later. “That means Rock Harbor shores don’t burn, not just yet. We may get a little rain tonight.

“You better stay with us,” he added, turning to the girls. “We’ll run you down to the lodge first thing in the morning. There’s a snug cabin which Mrs. Frey occupies when she is here. You will have it all to yourselves.”

So it was agreed. And Florence was not sorry. Surely she had seen quite enough of life for one day. Sleep would be sweet after such wild adventure.

“What of the boy in the crimson sweater?” she asked herself dreamily as she drifted off to sleep. Then, “I’ll get him yet.”