Part 5 (1/2)

”At sundown it will simply pour,” thought Claire, as she exchanged fifty cents for a ticket to Yolanda.

She presented her ticket at the entrance to the waiting-room and pa.s.sed in. The pa.s.sageway to the boat was already open; she went at once and found a sheltered corner outside on the upper deck. A strong sea was running and already the ferryboat was plunging and straining like a restless bloodhound in leash. The air was full of screaming gulls and the clipped whistling of restless bay craft. Claire was so intent on all this elemental agitation that she took no notice of the people about her, but as the boat slid lumberingly out of the slip she was recalled by a voice close at hand saying:

”Why, Miss Robson, who would think of seeing you here at this hour!”

Claire turned and discovered Miss Munch's cousin sitting beside her, intent on the inevitable tatting.

”Oh, Mrs. Richards, how stupid of me! Have you been here long?”

”About ten minutes. But I get so interested in my work I never have eyes for anything else. How do you put in the time? A trip like this is so tiresome!”

Claire delved into her bag and brought out knitting-needles and an unfinished sock.

”I'm trying a hand at this,” she admitted, holding her handiwork up ruefully. ”But I'm afraid I'm not very skilful.”

Mrs. Richards inspected the sock with critical disapproval.

”Oh, well,” she encouraged, ”you'll learn ... practice makes perfect.

I've just finished a half-dozen pairs. I suppose I'm laying myself out for a roast doing tatting in public _these_ war days! But it's restful and I'm not one to pretend. As long as my conscience is clear I can afford to be perfectly independent.... You don't make this trip every night, do you?”

”Oh my, no! I'm going over to Mr. Flint's to take some dictation. He's home sick.”

”I saw Mrs. Flint and the children coming _off_ the boat just as I got on.” Mrs. Richards's voice took on a tone of casual directness.

”You know Mrs. Flint?”

”My dear girl, a trained nurse knows everybody--and everything about them, too. You never get a real line on people until you live with them. I've never nursed any of the Flint family, but I wouldn't have to to get their reputation--or perhaps I should say, old Flint's.”

”_Old_ Flint's?” echoed Claire.

”Well, of course he isn't so awfully old, but men like him always give that impression. They're so awfully wise--about _some_ things. I _was_ so relieved when Gertie didn't get that dreadful Miss Whitehead's place. Being in the general office is bad enough, but in his _private_ office....” Mrs. Richards lifted and dropped her tatting-filled hands significantly.

Claire felt the blood rush to her face. ”I'm in the private office, Mrs.

Richards.... No doubt you forgot it.”

”Well now, you know I _had_ ... for the moment. But with a girl like you it's different. Some women can handle men, but Gertie would be so helpless!”

The humor of Mrs. Richards's remark saved the situation for Claire. She changed the subject deliberately. But somehow, with the conversation forced from the particular to the general, Miss Munch's cousin lost interest, and by the time the boat had pa.s.sed Alcatraz Island Claire was deep in her thoughts again and the other woman following the measured flight of the tatting-shuttle with strained attention.

The boat was romping through the stiff sea like a playful porpoise, dipping and plunging. A half-score of adventuresome gulls were still following in the foam-churned wake. In the face of all the pitching about, Mrs. Richards had quite a battle to direct her shuttle to any efficient purpose, and Claire was almost amused at the grim determination she brought to the performance.

Presently a warning whistle from the ferryboat betrayed the fact that they were nearing Sausalito. Mrs. Richards began to gather up her numerous bundles, and Claire and she made their way down the narrow stairs to the lower deck. Their progress was slow and uncertain. The southeaster was tearing across the open s.p.a.ces and bending everything before it; the lumbering boat dipped sideward in a stolid encounter with its adversary.

”Mercy! What a night!” gasped Mrs. Richards, clutching at Claire's arm.

A gust of wind struck them with its force just as they reached the lower deck. Mrs. Richards staggered and wrestled vainly with tatting-bag and bundles and a refractory skirt. For the moment both women were stalled in a desperate effort to retain their equilibrium.

”Come!” gasped Claire. ”Let's get over there in the shelter of that automobile.”