All-Story Weekly, Vol. 112, No. 1 — page 119: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

-GOOD REFERENCES. r © At a rough guess,” mused Pete, “ I’d say we’re the first persons who were ever shipwrecked on a society coast. Didn’t you ever feel a yearning to be marooned?”’ “ Never—and I never will, after this.” “‘ Well, we’re better off than a lot of cast- aways. We’re not on an island. We can walk home, if it comes to that.” “Walk! Dressed like this?” ‘¢ Swim, then.” Mary relapsed into a fit of exasperated silence. If Pete’s rage had cooled, her own was still at cherry heat. She felt ready to take the whole world by the throat and shake revenge out of it, particularly out of Bill Marshall. But she was helpless even to start upon the warpath. A girl in a bath- ing suit, the skirt of which had been carried to sea by a ruthless yacht, is not panoplied for a campaign. She felt shamed, out- raged, desperate to the point of violence— and futile. It seemed quite possible, as she viewed it then, that she might be compelled to sit on that beach for the remainder of her life. Certainly she did not intend to walk around Larchmont in a costume designed only for the Australian crawl. Pete was devoting time to a survey of their immediate environment. The beach was not more than ten yards in breadth; it was bounded on either side by the little capes of rock, and behind them by a low stone wall. A well-rolled and clipped lawn came down to the edge of the wall; it was studded with trees and shrubs. The gable of a dwelling was visible through an open- ing. As Pete studied the landscape a fig- ure appeared from among the trees. It was that of a young man in white flan- nels. He approached to the top of the stone wall and observed them carefully. ‘“‘ This is a private beach,” said the young man, speaking in a peculiar drawl that Pete immediately identified with the world of ex- clusive society. Mary, until then unaware of the presence of a third person, turned quickly, observed the speaker and huddled her knees under her chin. “‘ Well, we’re private citizens,” said Pete. “We do not permit trespassing,” said the young man. “Do you by any chance permit Divine 109 t Providence to deposit a pair of shipwrecked castaways on your seacoast?” inquired the valet. The young man in flannels appeared to be puzzled. He was now studying Mary with particular attention. Then he _ glanced quickly from side to side, as though search- ing for something else. ‘We never permit motion pictures to be taken here,” he said. ‘‘ Oblige me by going away.” _ “ My dear sir,” said Pete, who had risen to his feet, “‘ we are not in the movies. We are not here for fame or for profit. We do not occupy your beach either in the inter- ests of art or health. We aré merely here as the result of a contingency, a hazard of fortune, a mischance of fate.”’ ‘Well, go away.” The young man stepped down on the beach and approached for a closer view. Pete turned and whispered to Mary: _ “Shall we steal his beautiful clothes and divide ’em up?” ‘* Hush!” she said, The owner of the white flannels, which Pete was coveting with envious eyes, studied Mary until she began to blush. “We do not wish to have this Kind of a display on our private waterfront,” he re- marked. ‘‘ You must leave at once.” Mary sprang up, her gray eyes dangerous. ‘““Can’t you see that we’re in distress?” she cried, hotly. He surveyed her deliberately—her legs, bare from the knees down, her skirtless trunks, her white, rounded arms. “T can see very little of anything,” was his comment. rT Why, you—”’ But even though she choked on her words, there was no need for her to finish them. Pete stepped to within a yard of the stranger. “I don’t like the color of your hair,” he said, ‘‘ and that, of course, leaves me no alternative.” So he tapped the young man on the nose, so unexpectedly and with such speed and virility that the owner of the nose lost his balance and sat in the sand. Pete turned and seized Mary by the hand. comiclboolk C©