Three minutes more and she caught the refrain of their wild chant:
“You win! You win! We win! We win! Sourdough? No! No! No! Fresh-Dough! Fresh-Dough! We win! We win!”
There could be no doubting the truth of this chant. She read it in their faces when, as she shot across the line, they seized her, tossed her upon a broad expanse of dry walrus skin, then lifting her high, began bearing her away in triumph.
At the clubroom door they paused. Then, in a spirit of fun, they allowed the skin to sag. Two score hands gave a quick yank and the heroine of the hour rose in air.
This was not new to Florence. “Yea!” she shouted. “Come on! Let’s go!” Balancing herself in the center of this strange blanket, she stood erect and, with the next lusty pull, shot skyward like a rocket.
Three times she sought the stars. Three times she scanned that throng for a face. She was looking for Jodie. He was not there.
“Come on in,” they shouted in a chorus. “We’ll celebrate!”
“No,” she shook her head. “Please. Not tonight. I’m dead. Tomorrow night we’ll whoop it up.”
“All right! All right!” they screamed. “Big brass band and all. Tomorrow night.”
At that, seizing proud Tom Kennedy’s arm, she marched away.