“Sorta tough, huh?” the driver said with a hoarse laugh. “Well, I like a dame to be tough.”
“That’s nice for me, isn’t it?” Gerda rejoined sarcastically.
The driver laughed again. “I guess before we go any further I’ll collect your fare,” he said, stopping the truck with a jerk. “Let’s get in the back for a while.”
Gerda shook her head. “Get goin’,” she said sharply. “I don’t wear that sort of thing. I’ll give you a fin when we reach Fort Pierce. That’s all you’ll get.”
The driver screwed round in his seat. “Yeah?” he said, his voice suddenly menacing. “I ain’t used to that sort of yappin’ from a dame. Get into the back of the truck quick, before I get rough. You’re taking what I’m goin’ to give you, an’ you goin’ to like it.”
Gerda opened the door. “If that’s the way you feel about it,” she said, her eyes hard and calculating. She slid into the road. The moment her feet touched the wet tarmac she made a dart towards the thick citrus groves. Before she reached them a terrific jar struck her just above her knees and she went down in a heap. Her breath was knocked out of her body, and for several she minutes was powerless to move. She felt herself being picked up, carried a few steps and then banged down again.
“How do you like that?” the driver asked, kneeling over her.
She realized that she was in the back of the truck and she lay very still, waiting to recover her breath.
“Now, baby, do you play or must I rough you around until you do?” the driver asked.
Gerda said breathlessly: “O.K., you big caveman, let me get up an’ fix myself.”