QUEST OF THE FIREBIRDS 245 



The platform swooped skywards, reached a zenith, swayed 

 dizzily over the surf and then rocketed to earth on the top of 

 the stone cHff. Somewhat flabbergasted, I stepped off and 

 stared about. Six nearly naked young men, clad only in tennis 

 shoes and shorts, stood draped in various queer attitudes about 

 some boxes of machinery, while another crouched over a 

 whining puffing winch. Above, a whole cluster of electric 

 bulbs brilliantly lighted the scene. There had been no electric 

 lights eight years before, no crane to hoist one, Icarus-like, out 

 of the reach of the surf— nor were these nearly nude young 

 men native islanders. 



One even addressed me in a Harvard accent— and I realized 

 what had happened. The ''salt"— the island's one hope— had 

 returned. 



A tall slim chap— he with the Harvard accent— grinned wel- 

 come. He was coated, as were all the others, with a gorgeous 

 coat of sunburn, a deep reddish brown almost of copper hue. 

 Dabs of grease streaked his legs and arms and when I shook 

 hands I felt a palm that was worn and callused. Obviously, 

 this was not a man afraid to dirty his fingers. Somehow it was 

 startling to hear this Harvard accent coming from a man who 

 looked the color of an Indian. 



Remarkable changes had taken place. Beyond the glare of 

 the lights I could see some new buildings, all aglitter with 

 steel and aluminum paint. The old ruins with gaping windows 

 and holes in the roof were still there— looking like ghosts, as 

 indeed they were— but the settlement carried a new air. A 

 desert island was waking from a long sleep. In a moment I 

 sensed that in the hands of these keen-faced, bronzed, athletic 

 figures rested the fate and future of an island. 



The story of these men and their industry is a dramatic and 

 creditable one. They are the brothers Erickson, a trio of New 

 Englanders, and their enterprise is a chemical business having 



