Third Warning A Mystery Story for Girls — Themes and Context

the water. What was still more magnificent, she was landing twice a week on the shores of that place of great enchantment—Isle Royale.

Once, you will recall from reading _The Phantom Violin_, Florence with two companions had made her summer home on a huge wrecked ship off the rocky shores of this very island. What a summer that had been! Adventure? Plenty of it. The ship had at last been completely destroyed during a storm. They had barely escaped with their lives. The girl shuddered a little even now at the thought of it.

Florence was large, strong, fearless. A marvelous swimmer and a grand athlete, she had little to fear on land or water. And yet, as her eyes swept the deck of the _Wanderer_, the sixty-foot motor-boat on which she rode, a troubled look came into her fine blue eyes. Nor were those low, circling clouds the cause of her worry. She and her cousin Dave, quite as courageous and venturesome as she, had embarked upon an enterprise that promised to be a failure.

“Grandfather will lose his money. He can’t afford to lose, and it’s not all our fault,” she told herself a little bitterly. But now her thoughts were broken by a short, stout, bronze-faced man, an Indian who appeared at the cabin door.

“Look, John!” she pointed, speaking to the Indian. “Look at those strange clouds!”

“Huh!” he grunted. “Smoke!”

“Sm-smoke!” the girl stared. Then she breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, from Canada! Forest fires. I’ve heard—”

“No Canada. Come from Isle Royale, that smoke. Island on fire.”

“On—on fire?” It was Dave who spoke.

“Then that—that’s the end.” His voice was toneless with discouragement.

Isle Royale on fire! Florence tried to think what that might mean. For weeks there had been no rain. During their short stops at Chippewa Harbor, Tobin’s and Belle Isle, she had often walked back into the forests. She had found the trees, the moss, the soil dry as tinder.

“Wha—what part of the island is on fire?” she managed to ask.

“Siskowit Bay.” The Indian took the wheel, relieving Dave.

“Where all those boys are camped?” the girl asked.

“Do—do you suppose they are in danger?”

“Don’t know,” John twisted the wheel, “Bad fire.” He scanned the horizon.

“John,” said Dave, “do you know the rocks of Harlem Reef?”

“Every rock.” The Indian showed his fine teeth in a smile.

“Then I think,” Dave weighed his words carefully, “I think we’d better put in there. It’s off our course, but—”

“What’s that?” a voice broke in sharply, “A fire on Isle Royale?”

Florence did not finish. As she looked into the eyes of the man who had spoken she read there something that almost frightened her.

He was a short, stout man, one of the few passengers on that voyage. In his face she seemed to detect a look almost of antagonism. “But why?” she thought in sudden consternation, “I’ve never seen him before, I am sure of that. What can we have done to him?”

When the man spoke, none of this was to be detected in his words.

“A fire on Isle Royale?” He even forced a smile. “Too bad. But I can’t say that concerns us. This is a passenger boat, bound for Rock Harbor. Lake Siskowit, I’m told, is some twenty miles from there——”

“A fire,” Captain Davie spoke slowly, “any fire that destroys property concerns all of us.”

“Swing her about, John,” he turned to the Indian. “We’re going in there.”

“But your schedule calls for first stop at Rock Harbor,” the man insisted.

“That’s right, but an emergency exists. We—”

“Emergency my eye!” The man’s dark face flushed angrily. “You’ve contracted to have me at Rock Harbor by four o’clock, the _Iroquois_ docks an hour later. I shall have just time to transact my business and catch the _Iroquois_. If you don’t get me to Rock Harbor on time, you’ll regret it.”

“Perhaps,” was Dave’s slow rejoinder. Turning to the Indian he said quietly, “John, we’re putting in at Siskowit.”

“I’ll break you!” the man exclaimed angrily.

“That,” Dave laughed uncertainly, “that’s impossible. We’re already broke.”

Turning on his heel, the passenger strode away.

“Big shot,” said Indian John, jerking his head toward the retreating figure.

“What kind of big shot?” Florence asked.

“Don’t know.” John twisted the wheel. “Not Houghton man. Came from somewhere. Don’t know where.”

“Well,” said Dave, “big shot or no, we’re off for Siskowit.”