“That thing will be the death of him,” she said, as she finished telling Jeanne of this little adventure. “It will turn over when it’s going at full speed. The motor will take it to the bottom, and him with it.” Little she knew how nearly a true prophetess she was.
That evening Florence sat for some time before the fire. She was trying to read the future by the pictures in the flames. The pictures were dim and distorted. She read little there. But often the smiling face of the “poor little rich boy,” who found it necessary to advertise the fact that he was just like other folks, danced and faded in the flames.
“He’s a real sport,” she told herself. “I hope we meet again.”
Strangely enough, with this wish came the conviction that they would meet again, that his life and her life, the life of Tillie, of Jeanne, and of the lady cop, were inseparably linked together.
“But after all,” she told herself skeptically, “this, too, may be but a dream of the passing flames.”
CHAPTER XV
FISHING AND FIGHTING
“Do you want to catch some fish, some real big black bass?” Tillie’s face shone, as she shouted this to Florence.
Did she? The supreme thrill of a born fisherman, that which comes from seeing one’s line shoot out sweet and clean, telling of a bass on the hook, had come to her but three times in all her young life.
“Do I!” She seized Tillie and gave her an impulsive hug. “Lead on!”
“It’s a long way out. Two miles; maybe more.”