“But I didn’t come to make a call. I came for a favor,” she hastened to assure the astonished Florence.
“You were very kind to us last night.” Florence tried to conceal her astonishment. “We will do what we can.”
“It is but a little thing. I wish to visit an island across the bay. It is not far. Half an hour’s row. I do not wish to go alone. Will you be so kind as to accompany me?”
“What a strange request!” Florence thought. “One would suppose that she feared something. And there is nothing to fear. The island channels are safe and the bay is calm.”
“I’d be delighted to go,” she said simply.
This did not express the exact truth. There was that about the simple request that frightened her. What made it worse, she had seen, as in a flash of thought, the two pistols hanging over the strange one’s bed.
“Very well,” said the mystery lady. “Get your coat. We will go at once.”
Since Florence knew that Petite Jeanne was not afraid to be alone as long as her bear was with her, she hurried to the cabin, told Jeanne of her intentions, drew on a warm sweater, and accompanied the strange visitor to her boat.
Without a word, the lady of the island pushed her slight craft off, then taking up her oars, headed toward the far side of the bay.
“What island?” Florence asked herself.
There were four islands; three small, one large. The nearest small one was not inhabited. She and Jeanne had gone there once to enjoy their evening meal. There was a camping place in a narrow clearing at the center. The remainder of the island was heavily forested with birch and cedar.
On another small island was a single summer cottage, a rather large and pretentious affair with a dock and boathouse.
The large one, stretching away for miles in either direction, was dotted with summer homes.
The course of their boat soon suggested to her that they were to visit the small island that held the summer cottage. Yet, even as she reached this conclusion, she was given reasons for doubting it. Their course altered slightly. They were now headed for the end where the growth of cedar and birch reached to the water’s edge and where there was no sign of life. The cottage was many hundred feet from this spot.
“When one visits a place by water at night, one goes to the dock,” she told herself. “Where can we be going now?”
A rocky shoal extended for some little distance out from the point of the island. The light craft skirted this, then turned abruptly toward shore. A moment later it came to rest on a narrow, sandy beach.
“If you will please remain here for a very few moments,” said the lady of the island, “I shall be very grateful to you. Probably nothing will happen. Still, one never can tell. Should you catch a sound of commotion, or perhaps a scream, row away as speedily as possible and notify Deputy Sheriff Osterman at Rainy Creek at once. If I fail to return within the next half hour, do the same.”
“Why—er—”
Florence’s answer died on her lips. The mysterious one was gone.
“Who is she? Why are we here? What does she wish to know?” These and a hundred other haunting questions sped through the girl’s mind as she stood there alone in the dark, waiting, alert, expectant, on tiptoe, listening to the tantalizing lap-lap of water on the sandy shore.
A moment passed into eternity, another, and yet another. From somewhere far out over the dim-lit waters there came the haunting, long drawn hoot of a freighter’s foghorn.
Something stirred in the bush. She jumped; then chided herself for her needless fear.
“Some chipmunk, or a prowling porcupine,” she told herself.
A full quarter of an hour had passed. Her nerves were all but at the breaking point, when of a sudden, without a sound, the lady of the island stood beside her.
“O. K.,” she said in a low tone. “Let’s go.”
They were some distance from the island when at last the lady spoke again.
“That,” she said in a very matter-of-fact tone, “is Gamblers’ Island. And I am a lady cop from Chicago.”
“A—a lady cop!” Florence stared at her as if she had never seen her before.
“A lady policeman,” the other replied quietly. “In other words, a detective. Women now take part in nearly every field of endeavor. Why not in this? They should. Men have found that there are certain branches of the detective service that naturally belong to women. We are answering the challenge.
“But listen!” She held up a hand for silence.
To their waiting ears came the sound of a haunting refrain. The sound came, not from the island they had just left, but from the other, the supposedly uninhabited one.
“They say—” into the lady’s voice there crept a whimsical note, “that this island was once owned by a miser. He disappeared years ago. His cabin burned long since. Perhaps he has returned from another world to thrum a harp, or it may be only a banjo. We must have a look!”
She turned the prow of her boat that way and rowed with strength and purpose in the direction from which the sound came.
CHAPTER VII
GYPSY MOON
As they neared the tiny island, the sound of banjo and singing grew louder. From time to time the music was punctuated by shouts and clapping of hands.
“Someone playing gypsy under the gypsy moon,” said the lady of the island, glancing at the golden orb that hung like a giant Chinese lantern in the sky.
Florence made no reply. She recalled the dark-skinned child she had surprised on the trail, but kept her thoughts to herself.
“There’s a tiny beach half way round to the left,” she suggested. “We were here not long ago.”
The boat swerved. Once more they moved on in silence.
To Florence there was something startling about this night’s happenings.
“Gamblers’ Island; a lady cop,” she whispered. “And now this.”
Once more their boat grounded silently. This time, instead of finding herself left behind, the girl felt a pull at her arm and saw a hand in the moonlight beckon her on.
From the spot where they had landed, a half trail, strewn with brush and overhung with bushes, led to the little clearing at the center of the island.
Florence and Jeanne had found this trail difficult in broad daylight. Yet her guide, with a sense of direction quite uncanny, led the way through the dark without a single audible swish of brush or crack of twig until, with breath coming quick and fast, Florence parted the branches of a low growing fir tree and found herself looking upon a scene of wild, bewitching beauty.
Round a glowing campfire were grouped a dozen people.
“Gypsies,” she told herself. “All French gypsies!” Her heart sank. Here was bad news indeed.
Or was it bad? “Perhaps,” she said to herself, “they are Jeanne’s friends.”
Whether the scene boded good or ill, it enthralled her. Two beautiful gypsies, garbed in scant attire, but waving colorful shawls about them as they whirled, were dancing before the fire. Two banjos and a mandolin kept time to the wild beating of their nimble feet.
Old men, women, and children hovered in the shadows. Florence had no difficulty in locating the child of the trail who had played with the chipmunk. She was now fast asleep in her mother’s arms.
Florence’s reaction to all this was definite, immediate. She disliked the immodest young dancers and the musicians. The children and the older ones appealed to her.
“They have hard faces, those dancers,” she told herself. “They would stop at nothing.”
Of a sudden a mad notion seized her. These were water gypsies who had deserted the caravan for a speed boat. They had seen Jeanne, had recognized her, and it had been their speed boat that had overturned the rowboat.
“But that,” she told herself instantly, “is impossible. Such a speed boat costs two or three thousand dollars. How can a band of gypsies hope to own one?”
Nevertheless, when her strange companion, after once more pulling at her
arm, had led her back to the beach, she found the notion in full possession of her mind.
Florence offered to row back to the mainland but as if by mistake she rowed the long way round the island. This gave her a view of the entire shore.
“No speed boat, nor any other motor craft on those shores,” she assured herself after a quarter of an hour of anxious scanning. “Wonder how they travel, anyway.”
Thereupon she headed for the distant shore which was, for the time being, their home.
Once again her mind was troubled. Should she tell Petite Jeanne of this, her latest discovery, or should she remain silent?
CHAPTER VIII
SUN-TAN TILLIE
Next day Florence made a new friend. Petite Jeanne wished to spend the morning, which was damp and a trifle chilly, among the cushions before the fire. Florence went for a ramble in the forest.
She took a path she had not followed before. These strange trails fascinated her. Some of them, she had been told, led on and on and on into vast, trackless slashings where one might be lost for days, and perhaps never return.
She had no notion of getting herself lost. By watching every fork in the trail, and noting the direction she had taken, she made sure of finding her way back.
She had been following this trail for half an hour when of a sudden a voice shattered the silence of the forest.
“Now, Turkey, do be careful!” It was a girl’s light pitched voice. “We’ve got to get them. You know we have.”
“But what if they ain’t here?” grumbled a boy’s voice.
“What can they be after?” Florence asked herself. “And who can they be, way back here in the forest where no one lives?”
She hesitated for a moment. Then, deciding to investigate, she pushed on.
She was not long in discovering that she had been mistaken on one count. She was not in the heart of the forest. The trees thinned. She found herself on the edge of a bay where bullrushes were thick. She had crossed a point of land and had come to water again.
Near the beach, in shallow water, a boy of twelve and a girl of sixteen were struggling with a minnow net.
The net was long and hard to handle. Weeds in the water hampered their progress. They had not seen Florence. The girl labored with the determined look of one who must not pause until her task is completed.
The boy was a plain towhead. There are a thousand such on the shores of the Upper Peninsula. The girl caught Florence’s attention. She was plump, well formed, muscular. Her body was as brown as an Indian’s. She possessed a wealth of golden red hair. A single garment covered her, a bathing suit which had once been green, but was now nearly white.
“Natives,” thought Florence. “But what are they after?”
Just then the girl looked up. She took Florence in from head to toe at a glance.
“Hello.” Her tone was frank, friendly.
“Hello,” Florence came back. “What’s your name?”
“Tillie—Tillie McFadden.” The girl flashed her charming Irish smile.
“Tillie!” exclaimed Florence. “Sun-Tan Tillie!”
The smile faded for a second, then returned. “Oh! You mean I’m brown. I’ve always been that way.”
“I know girls who’d give their best dresses for your color. They buy it in boxes, and put it on with a brush, in Chicago.”
The girl laughed. Then she looked at the net and frowned. “Now we lost ’em! Turkey, we’ve got to get ’em. There’s ten autos on the way.”
“What are you catching?” asked Florence.
“Minnies.”
“Oh, minnows? Not many here, are there?”
“No. That’s the trouble. Been trying for more than an hour. Pop, he runs a tourist camp. Turkey and I catch the bait. It’s tough sometimes.”
“Over across the point,” Florence replied quickly, “there are millions. I saw them half an hour ago. Water’s black with them.”
“Morton’s Bay.” Tillie’s face lighted. “Turkey, we got to go there. It’s quite a row, but that’s the only place.”
“Why don’t you bring the net across the point?” Florence asked. “Let your brother take the boat around. I’ll slip on my bathing suit and help you.”
“Would you?” Tillie smiled gratefully.
“I’d love to. Must be a lot of fun. All those minnows tickling your toes.”
“Might be fun for some,” said Tillie doubtfully.
“Turkey,” she commanded, “you bring the boat around.”
“Why do you call him Turkey?” Florence asked when they were in the forest.
“Turkey Trot. That’s his nickname. Boys called him that because they said he ran like a turkey. He don’t mind. Up here everybody’s got a nickname.”
They said no more, but marched straight on over the woodland trail. Tillie was strong and fast. There was no questioning that. She was in a hurry, too. She led the way, and the city girl experienced difficulty in holding the pace.
She had dropped a little behind. Tillie was around a curve and out of sight, when of a sudden she heard a piercing scream. The next moment she beheld Tillie nimbly climbing a tree.
The cause was not far to seek. Despite her efforts at self control, she burst out laughing. Down the path came a big brown bear. The bear wore a leather collar set with mother-of-pearl.
When she could stop laughing she screamed to Tillie: “You don’t have to be afraid of him. He’s our pet bear, Tico.”
But what was this? Tico, if Tico it be, marched straight at her. He showed all his teeth in an ugly snarl. Florence promptly followed Tillie up the tree. From this point of vantage she was able to make a more careful study of the bear and to discover that he was not Tico after all. He was not as large as Tico. His collar, though somewhat like Tico’s, was utterly different in design.
“The final laugh is on me,” she said, almost gayly.
“No,” replied Tillie. “It’s on me. There’s a tourist party of ten autos coming to our camp. They’ll be there in two hours. They’ve got to have bait. You can’t catch minnies in a tree.”
This, Florence admitted, was true. However, the bear did not keep them prisoners long. For, after all, he was someone’s tame bear and had eaten his breakfast. After sniffing at Tillie’s net and enjoying its fishy smell, he ambled off, leaving them to continue their journey, which they did at redoubled speed.
As they hurried down the trail, one thought occupied Florence’s mind. “That bear,” she told herself, “belongs to those gypsies. And he’s nearer our camp right now than the gypsies have been.” She was thinking once more of Petite Jeanne.
CHAPTER IX
BANGING A BEAR
Arrived at the cabin, Florence hurried into her bathing suit. All the time she was changing she was thinking: “I only hope those minnows are still there. Tillie promises to become an interesting friend. I do not wish to lose her by a false move now.”
She need not have feared. The minnows were there still, flashing in the sunlight.
As Florence appeared with two large buckets, Tillie cried out in great delight. “We’ll get enough for two days! Put the buckets on the beach. And please hurry!”
Florence followed her instructions, then seizing one end of the net, plunged after Tillie into the water.
“Like to fish?” Tillie asked, as she executed a deft curve with the net.
“Yes. Do you?”
“I love it!” Tillie’s tone was full of meaning. “But there’s so little time. There are boats to bail out, camping places to clean up, lines to mend, minnies to catch, and a lot more things. We’re never through. Honest, I haven’t had this suit off, except at night, for days.”
Florence envied her. She adored the very tasks this girl had come to hate.
“There now!” exclaimed Tillie. “We’ve got’em. Just swing your end in; then up with it.”
The brown mesh of the net was all ashimmer with tiny, flapping fishes.
“Seems a shame,” said Florence, as she help
ed scoop the minnows into one of the waiting buckets. “So many tiny lives snuffed out just for fun.”
“They wouldn’t ever get much bigger,” said Tillie philosophically. “Pop says they’re just naturally little fellows like some of the rest of us.”
She set the bucket down. “We’ll leave this one right here. We’ll take the other one down a piece. We’ll get one more haul. That’ll be enough. Then Turkey’ll be here.”
Once more they dragged the net over the sandy shallows, circled, closed in, then lifted a multitude of little fishes from the water.
The last wriggling minnow had gone flapping into the bucket, when suddenly Tillie straightened up with first a puzzled, then an angry look on her face.
Seizing a heavy driftwood pole that lay upon the beach, she dashed away over the sand.
To her horror, Florence saw that the strange bear, who had undoubtedly followed them, had just thrust his head into their other bucket of minnows.
“Bears like fish,” she thought. “Tillie will be killed!
“Tillie! Tillie!” she screamed. “Don’t! Don’t!”
She may as well have shouted at the wind. Tillie’s stout arms brought the club down twice on the bear’s head. Thwack! Thwack!
With a loud grunt, the bear turned about and vanished into the brush.
At the same instant Petite Jeanne appeared at the door. She had heard Florence scream.
“What happened?” she asked.
“A—a—something tried to steal our minnows,” Florence stammered. “I—I think it was a dog. Tillie, here, hit him.
“Oh! Tillie, meet my buddy, Petite Jeanne. She’s from France; an actress.”
“An actress!” Tillie stared at Jeanne as she might have looked at an angel. “I’ve heard of them,” she said simply.
“I thought,” Florence said in a low tone to Tillie, “that you were afraid of that bear.”
“Afraid—” Tillie scratched her head. “Yes, I am. But when I get good and mad, as Pop says, I’m not afraid of nobody nor nothin’.”
At that moment there came a loud whoop from the water. It was Turkey Trot.
“Got any?” he shouted.
“Plenty,” Tillie shrilled back.
The boat swung in. Tillie, with a bucket in each hand, waded out to it. The precious cargo was stowed safely aboard; then seizing the oars, with a good-bye and thank you, Tillie rowed rapidly away.
The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 111