“Let’s ask her,” said Gene.
“Youse shut up, won’t you.”
“She’s saying something. Hear?”
“Sounds like ‘Dorothy,’” said Spike. “Look at her dig them hands in the water.”
“Say, she’s crazy, sure!” whispered Gene.
At which they drew back awe-struck, yet fascinated by the grotesque buffoonery inseparable from the insane.
“Somebody’d better go and phone the cops,” whispered Spike, excitedly. “She’ll get drowned, and then we’ll get in a bar’l of trubble.”
“I’ll go,” said Gene, half frightened, and glad of an excuse to get away from the uncanny spectacle. “Who’s got a phone near here?” he asked.
“Up at the big house, yonder. Harris’. They’s got one, but youse don’t want to leave me here alone with that crazy woman. She’s coming ashore. Kin youse hear what she’s saying?” They listened intently.
“I’m sure I saw her,” she said in tones strangely pitiful. “Her golden hair floated on the surface like a silken mesh—then sank down, down—ah, there it is again.” And she outstretched her hand and tried to grasp something.