The Phantom Violin Page 2

  CHAPTER II MYSTERIES OF NIGHT

  As Florence and Jeanne sat there in the dark, whispering and wonderingabout the strange black schooner and its purpose in these waters,wondering too whether they dared light a candle and heat water for tea,something moved in the berth above their heads, and they became once moreconscious of the third member of their party, Greta Clara Bronson.

  You have been wondering perhaps how it came about that Jeanne andFlorence, who spent so much of their time in great cities, were to befound living on this wreck off the primeval shores of Isle Royale. Youwill find the answer in the third girl, Greta Clara Bronson, who now slidher bare feet over the edge of the berth and prepared to descend.

  Greta was slender, rather tall, with black hair, snapping black eyes, anda body that was a fine example of perpetual motion. At this moment shewas recovering from an attack of hay fever and asthma. That is why shewas here, why they were all here. Isle Royale is a rare retreat for hayfever victims.

  Two months before Jeanne had met Greta and had fallen in love with her.Greta could dance almost as well as Jeanne. She played the violin"divinely," as Jeanne expressed it. So when, one midsummer day, Jeannefound her friend sitting up in bed panting for breath, and was told thatonly a summer on Isle Royale could bring back to her the joy of life, shehad hurried away to find Florence. Together they had plotted and planned.And now, here they were.

  But why on a wrecked ship? Are there no hotels on the island? Yes, thereare four small hotels on Isle Royale. But what trio of happy, energetic,adventure-loving girls would choose a hotel rather than the deck of awrecked ship for a summer outing? Some might, but not Florence, Greta,and Jeanne.

  The only fear, expressed by them a half hour later over their tea, wasthat some unforeseen event might drive them from their strange retreat.

  "Who's afraid?" Florence swung her stout arms wide. And who indeed couldbe, with Florence as her protector? Strong as a man, a physical directorand a gymnast, tipping the scale at one hundred and sixty pounds, shecould swim a mile, row a boat through tireless hours, and handle a gunwith the best of men. Nor was the gun lacking, a short, business-likerifle hung above her berth.

  "Not that you'll ever need it," Swen Petersen, a fine young fisherman whohad loaned it to her, had said. "All us fisher folks are simple andhonest. And you're not allowed to shoot animals on the Island. It's agame preserve. But you will like to look at my rifle sometimes." So hehad left it.

  Florence smiled as she recalled his words. She was enjoying "looking atit" this very moment. More than once she had taken it down to handle itlovingly. Once, on seeing a bit of wood bobbing in the water, she hadtaken aim and fired. The short, stout rifle had a great roar to it. AndFlorence had a steady aim; she had split the wood in two, first shot.

  "All the same," she thought to herself, "I wish people would not prowlaround the boat at night. And what would one dive for?" she askedherself. "Three or four barrels of oil in the hold--surely they are notworth all that trouble."

  Then it struck her all of a heap that here was a mystery and perhaps somegreat secret.

  "Does this broken hulk of a ship hide some rich treasure?" she askedherself.

  She laughed the thought down, but it bobbed up like a cork in water, morebuoyant than ever.

  "The ship's ghost is gone!" she exclaimed, springing up. "I wonder ifthose men will come back. I'm going to see."

  "And leave us here?" Greta, too, was on her feet. Youngest of the trio,she was unaccustomed to wild, out-of-the-way places.

  "Come along," Florence invited. "No ghost costumes though! Get into yourlong coats."

  A moment later three dark shadows stole out upon the slanting deck of thewrecked ship.

  "Boo!" Greta gripped Florence's stout arm. "How spooky it all is in themoonlight!"

  "And just think!" Jeanne whispered. "Thousands of people have walked thisdeck, thousands upon thousands! The ship's more than forty years old.Thousands of those passengers will never walk any deck again. They aregone from this world forever."

  "Oh--oh! Jeanne, don't talk like that!" dark-eyed Greta implored.

  "But where's your black schooner?" Florence demanded.

  "Gone for good, I guess," Jeanne said after scanning the dark waters.

  "For good?" Florence murmured. "I wonder."

  For a full half hour they marched arm in arm up and down the broad deck.During all that time not a dozen words were spoken. It was a time forthought, not for speech. Here they were, three girls alone on the deck ofa wrecked ship. They hoped to make it their summer home. Were intrudersto bring all this to an end?

  "Not if I can help it!" Florence told herself.

  "Swen told us we would not be disturbed," she thought. "No one livesnear. The Tobin's Harbor settlement is five miles away. Blake's Pointwith its rugged reefs and wild waves lies between. Few small crafts passthat way.

  "Ah well," she whispered to herself, "tomorrow we will row over toDuncan's Bay. Perhaps we shall find some trace of the black schoonerthere."

  After that, for many long moments she gave herself over to contemplationof the scene of wild beauty that lay before her. The golden moon, darkwaters, a shore line that was like a ghostly shadow, the wink and blinkof a distant lighthouse, all this seemed a picture taken down from an artmuseum wall.

  "Come!" she said at last, giving two slender arms a squeeze. "Come, wemust go in. Tomorrow is another day."