consulted a small gold watch pinned to her bosom, then clasped her gloved hands together at her waist and matter-of-factly stepped off the pier.
There was a quick flash of her skirt lifting above ankle-high shoes, yellow, with buttons, then Mack heard the splash. He ran toward the spot where she’d jumped. The lone fisherman couldn’t help; he was too frail. Mack waved his arms at the ferry churning from its slip. Clearly, the pilot, crew, and excited passengers had seen the girl’s suicide leap.
“Save that girl!” Mack yelled across the water. But the ferry engines kept rumbling; Alameda did not change course or slow down.
From the edge of the pier, Mack saw the girl’s straw hat floating below. Her face was out of the water, her eyes closed, and for some reason she didn’t sink.
He shouted at the ferry again. No response. He dropped his bundled possessions, thinking not of his inability to swim but her impending death, and jumped in. As he dropped, he wondered if he could swim well enough to pull her back to the pier. His feet struck, he sank, shot back up sputtering, and reached for the limp girl. His hand found her slippery throat.
Her eyes opened—large eyes, a warm vivid brown.
“Damn you, get away, I can swim.”
“Hang on to me,” he gasped, splashing, kicking to stay up. “Killing yourself’s no answer for anything—”
“Let go of me!” Under the surface, her flying feet struck him. He realized she’d been treading water since the moment she went in. One of her white gloves fisted and bashed him. “Idiot. I’m trying to get a story. I’m a reporter.”
Mack let go then. And sank.
She hooked an elbow around his neck, wrenching it, severely. He struggled a moment, but then realized she must be trying to save him. She kicked and paddled, dragging him behind, and in a moment his head knocked against the slimy rungs of a pier ladder.
She climbed up first, dripping water all over him. When they were both on the pier again, he confronted her, angry and mightily confused. He saw a woman his age or a bit older. Her skin was brown from exposure to the sun and she had a wide, determined mouth and a certain strong bluntness to her chin. She looked not at him, but at the SP ferry, now well out in the Bay.
“Those inhuman curs. Their schedules are more important than anything. They probably would have let me drown. Of course, I can hardly prove that now, can I?” Her glance back at him was withering.
Mack snorted to clear his nose and snatched at something sticky on his forehead. Green seaweed. He flung it away. “If that’s your attitude, I’m sorry I bothered. Hell, I can’t even swim very well.”
“Do you mean it?” Her gaze softened now as she turned her attention to him. “I thought you were just clumsy.”
“Clumsy. God,” he growled, snatching up the bandanna bundle.
“You’re furious with me—”
“Why, no, I always expect to be bit and cursed and ridiculed when I try to help somebody. So long, whoever you are.”
“Please, don’t go. I shouldn’t have blown up at you. What you did was generous, and brave. It’s just that I hate to lose a story.”
“What story? Would you mind telling me what’s going on here, Miss…?”
“Ross. Nellie Ross.”
“Mack Chance.”
He stood there, waiting, and she thought, What a curious young man. Poor, bedraggled, with a bumpkin look to his clothes. But he neither acted nor spoke like a bumpkin; he was forceful, and unexpectedly interesting to her. Instead of dismissing him—her first impulse—she pointed to a bench at the head of the pier. “Come rest a minute and I’ll explain.”
Mack followed the girl; he, too, was doing some appraising. She was about his height, with a quick, assertive stride and a distinct tomboy air. Somehow that didn’t make her less feminine.
“It’s very simple,” she said, patting the bench beside her. He sat, his soaked clothes squishing and leaking water. “Do you read the Examiner
There was a quick flash of her skirt lifting above ankle-high shoes, yellow, with buttons, then Mack heard the splash. He ran toward the spot where she’d jumped. The lone fisherman couldn’t help; he was too frail. Mack waved his arms at the ferry churning from its slip. Clearly, the pilot, crew, and excited passengers had seen the girl’s suicide leap.
“Save that girl!” Mack yelled across the water. But the ferry engines kept rumbling; Alameda did not change course or slow down.
From the edge of the pier, Mack saw the girl’s straw hat floating below. Her face was out of the water, her eyes closed, and for some reason she didn’t sink.
He shouted at the ferry again. No response. He dropped his bundled possessions, thinking not of his inability to swim but her impending death, and jumped in. As he dropped, he wondered if he could swim well enough to pull her back to the pier. His feet struck, he sank, shot back up sputtering, and reached for the limp girl. His hand found her slippery throat.
Her eyes opened—large eyes, a warm vivid brown.
“Damn you, get away, I can swim.”
“Hang on to me,” he gasped, splashing, kicking to stay up. “Killing yourself’s no answer for anything—”
“Let go of me!” Under the surface, her flying feet struck him. He realized she’d been treading water since the moment she went in. One of her white gloves fisted and bashed him. “Idiot. I’m trying to get a story. I’m a reporter.”
Mack let go then. And sank.
She hooked an elbow around his neck, wrenching it, severely. He struggled a moment, but then realized she must be trying to save him. She kicked and paddled, dragging him behind, and in a moment his head knocked against the slimy rungs of a pier ladder.
She climbed up first, dripping water all over him. When they were both on the pier again, he confronted her, angry and mightily confused. He saw a woman his age or a bit older. Her skin was brown from exposure to the sun and she had a wide, determined mouth and a certain strong bluntness to her chin. She looked not at him, but at the SP ferry, now well out in the Bay.
“Those inhuman curs. Their schedules are more important than anything. They probably would have let me drown. Of course, I can hardly prove that now, can I?” Her glance back at him was withering.
Mack snorted to clear his nose and snatched at something sticky on his forehead. Green seaweed. He flung it away. “If that’s your attitude, I’m sorry I bothered. Hell, I can’t even swim very well.”
“Do you mean it?” Her gaze softened now as she turned her attention to him. “I thought you were just clumsy.”
“Clumsy. God,” he growled, snatching up the bandanna bundle.
“You’re furious with me—”
“Why, no, I always expect to be bit and cursed and ridiculed when I try to help somebody. So long, whoever you are.”
“Please, don’t go. I shouldn’t have blown up at you. What you did was generous, and brave. It’s just that I hate to lose a story.”
“What story? Would you mind telling me what’s going on here, Miss…?”
“Ross. Nellie Ross.”
“Mack Chance.”
He stood there, waiting, and she thought, What a curious young man. Poor, bedraggled, with a bumpkin look to his clothes. But he neither acted nor spoke like a bumpkin; he was forceful, and unexpectedly interesting to her. Instead of dismissing him—her first impulse—she pointed to a bench at the head of the pier. “Come rest a minute and I’ll explain.”
Mack followed the girl; he, too, was doing some appraising. She was about his height, with a quick, assertive stride and a distinct tomboy air. Somehow that didn’t make her less feminine.
“It’s very simple,” she said, patting the bench beside her. He sat, his soaked clothes squishing and leaking water. “Do you read the Examiner
Similar Books
