“I may have a thought,” Peter Hubbard said. “Craig, you’re the fire chief, I understand. Do you ever use dry-­ice extinguishers?”

Craig nodded quickly. “Sure do! It’s the only thing for some kinds of fires.” His voice rose with hopefulness. “You mean, we do a search carrying the tanks . . .”

“Yes. All the kettle holes, for instance.”

“We’d have to get a lot more tanks.”

“Is that possible?”

“I guess. From Chatham and towns around.”

“Check that as soon as you can!”

“I’ll phone up . . .”

Reed interrupted Craig. “Let me call Doreen a minute first. I want to be sure she keeps the kids out of the woods.” The two went out quickly together.

Ben Dorset, at Peter Hubbard’s side, asked anxiously, “What do we do if we find a nest?”

“Let’s take one step at a time,” Hubbard said. He called across to Amos Tarbell. “Are there any houses on High Ridge that may be in danger? I mean, any places sitting close to the woods without clear spaces around them?”

The sheriff needed only a moment to think. “The Laidlaws, maybe, and the Tintons for sure. I can phone them right now. Tell them we need to do more spraying around there . . .”

Elias Johnson said, “Good idea, but I think you might just be driving by, more casual, Amos. Seem like less of a fuss, and tell them Scott will put them up at his hotel until we get the all-­clear. Right, Stephen?”

The fat man nodded at once. It was far better than a general evacuation.

Russell Homer came forward. “Peter,” he said to Dr. Hubbard, very conscious of the first-­name liberty he was taking, “you said you need more specimens. I’m sure I can get you some out at the dump.”

“That may be too dangerous now,” Johnson worried.

Homer had already figured he could come at the dump safely by boat, shovel some garbage into a metal can, and get back out fast. He told his plan with pride. Ben Dorset, looking out the window, shook his head. “It’s getting on to blow now, Russ. I think this’ll be a real bad one, and it can turn tricky up there . . .”

“I’ll manage!” Russell wished he could show the two from Harvard the little lobster craft he had built himself—look, ma, no degrees! He had drawn the plans, shaped the planks, hammered the dowels, planed the boat, caulked it, engined it, and lovingly painted it bright blue with yellow stripes, like “a Portugee.” The boat was underpowered, but Russell Homer knew to the last degree what it would and would not do in any wind and any sea. “You’ll have your garbage!” he promised Wanda Lindstrom, not without a touch of swagger as he left the room.