Chapter XVIII: Father Superior at His Worst

The instant the sun left them the whole world appeared to change. The water lay all about them black and threatening. Land seemed miles away. Florence shook herself. Then she glanced up at the sun. The cloud was but a small one. Already the sun was painting a golden rim along its lower edge.

“The rocks,” said Katie, “are down there.”

Looking down into the water at the side of the boat, Florence was startled. The water was crystal clear. The great masses of rocks were so real that they seemed dry land. “As if we were floating on air above it,” she told herself. It was strange.

“This is the place,” said Katie, as, a moment later, they passed across the far end of that submerged reef. “You go across fast.” Her stout arms sent the boat racing. “Then you drop your oars and let the lure sink down, down, down. If you don’t get a rock, you—”

She did not finish, for at that instant something all but dragged the pole from her companion’s hands.

“There!” Katie exclaimed, “You’ve got—”

But no! The line went slack.

“Oh!” Florence exclaimed. “What a—”

“There!” Katie exclaimed again as the pole all but bent double. “Hang on tight. You—”

Was there ever such a thrilling, appalling moment? Once again the line went slack.

But not for long. Ten seconds and the pull came again. “Now!” Katie exclaimed, half rising in her place, “Now you got him.”

That she had something big on her line, Florence could not doubt. That it was alive she was not long in finding out. She had reeled in twenty feet of line when, of a sudden, the reel handle was jerked from her fingers. Her knuckles were barked until they bled as she tried in vain to recover that handle. Only the strength of her line saved the day, the line and Katie, for the stout young Finn began backing the boat away.

“I—I’ve still got him,” Florence panted as she took a fresh grip on her reel.

Once more she began reeling in. Ten, twenty, thirty feet, the fish came grudgingly. Then, with a suddenness that was startling, the pull on the line redoubled.

“He’s turned on you. Hold—hold on hard!” Katie screamed.

This time Florence’s fingers did not slip. With grim determination she held on. This was a truly big one. She must have him. Was he the catch of the season? What joy if only he were. To work as she had worked, then to play for only a day, to bring in the prize fish!

“Ah!” she breathed as once more the strain lessened and she started reeling in.

Of a sudden the line went slack. “Gone!” she exclaimed in consternation.

“No! No! He may—be only—” Katie did not finish. Once again the reel sang. After a rush toward the boat the fish had darted to the right. Once again the girl’s reel was emptied and it was only Katie’s skill with the boat that saved the line.

“Sometimes,” said Florence with a mock-sober look on her face, “I wish we hadn’t hooked that fish.” Rubbing the blood from her knuckles, she began again.

For a time she met with greater success. Nearly all her line was in. The fish was directly beneath them when, with a sudden rush he shot upward. It was as if a spring-board were beneath him, for, as he hit the surface he rose clear of the water.

A blue-black streak of silver, he appeared to hang in air, then, like a depth-bomb shot downward.

“Wha-what a whopper,” Katie cried.

As for Florence, she was too busy saving her bruised knuckles even to think. One thing stood out in her mind, she would not give up. She must have that fish.

Sixty seconds later the fish once again came to the surface, this time forty feet away. He came to the top, head, tail and all. For a split second they were permitted to admire him, then he was down again.

Had Florence been a man, with the strong hard grip of a man in her fingers, the battle must have ended much sooner. As it was, time passed swiftly and as swiftly the big fish battled for freedom.

At last, just as the girl was giving up hope, the fish, with the perversity of his kind, came up beneath the boat, circled twice on a short line, then lay quite still on the surface. It was Katie who put the finishing touch to that bit of drama. Reaching out with her strong arms she gathered the fish, all wet and dripping, to her bosom and “loved him” into the boat. After that for a full minute the two girls sat staring first at each other, then at the fish. He was a forty-pounder, thirty-five at the least; twice as large as any fish caught that season.

Then, with the suddenness of a blow on the head, both girls awoke to the startling fact that during the battle their little world had vanished. Gone was the spot of green among the blue that is Passage Island, gone Blake’s Point and Edward’s Island. There was no land, only black threatening skies and blacker water. Clouds and fog had blotted out everything. Stealing up from behind Isle Royale, one of Superior’s sudden storms was racing down upon them. Katie courageously gripped her oars. But which way? Who could tell? In vain their eyes scoured the surface of the waters for the Lone Fisherman. He was not to be seen. Man or phantom, he had vanished.

“It’s a grand fish,” said Katie, striving in vain to keep the tremble out of her voice.

“Yes,” Florence thought, “it is a wonderful fish, but at what cost!”

It was a sober pair that faced the immediate future. Low-lying clouds had blotted out every trace of land. They were a mile from anywhere. Which way was land? How were they to know? Two hours before the wind had been off-shore. If they now headed into the wind, would they reach the island? Lake Superior winds change on a moment’s notice. If land did lie off there to windward, could they reach it? Every moment saw the gale increasing. White-caps were appearing.

Resolutely Katie headed into the wind and began rowing. There was, on the sturdy girl’s face at that moment, a look of such dogged determination as Florence had never seen there before.

“I got her into this,” she thought soberly. “It was wrong to come.”

And yet, had it been wrong? It was their day off. They had wanted a good time. They had had it, too. No one could deny that. Yet they had been—well, perhaps one might say rash, impulsive. Did impulse ever have any rightful place in one’s life? She wondered and could not answer. Surely life would be dull if everyone plodded straight on always doing the sure, safe thing. No vim nor sparkle to life. And yet—

Suddenly she realized that this was not a time for thought but for action. Extra oars lay in the bottom of the boat. Seizing these she set them in place, then waited until she had caught the rhythmic swing of Katie’s rowing. After that for a full quarter hour the creak of oars, the whistle of wind and the low swish of mounting waves were all that disturbed the silence of those black waters.

Suddenly Florence felt a hand on her shoulder. “Stop rowing,” said Katie.

“Why? What—”

Katie made no reply. Instead she turned the boat about to guide it by slow, easy strokes straight away from the storm.

“It’s no good.” Her voice sounded tired when at last she spoke. “All the time the wind it grows stronger. Perhaps land is this way. Who knows? We cannot go against the wind. With the wind we can go far, far! It is a good boat.”

There was a note almost of affection in the big girl’s voice. “It is a Thompson boat.”

Florence did not know what a Thompson boat was. She did know that their boat was deep, straight across the top and strong. She was thankful for all this. But which way were they heading? In some directions it was two hundred miles to land. And who could tell how this storm would end?

“Waves, mountain high,” she murmured. “Lake Superior at its worst.”