?”
He shook his head. “I’m new here.”
“My employer, Mr. Hearst, took it over just this year from his father, the senator. He’s the silver millionaire, the senator. Young Mr. Hearst intends to stop the flood of red ink and make the Examiner the best paper in the West. I write for him, under the byline Ramona Sweet. I cover murder trials, train wrecks—the thrill stuff. When there’s no real news, we go out and make news. That’s Mr. Hearst’s way.”
Mack was fascinated. The girl had a short, blunt nose—the peasant touch again—and a forthrightness that added an intriguing spice to her. “Is that what you were doing here?”
Nellie Ross nodded. “Staging a stunt. Mr. Hearst hates the Southern Pacific as much as I do. They’re indifferent to passenger safety. Last month a boy age seven fell off one of their ferry boats. The crew was slow to stop the engines to pick him up, and he drowned. That’s why I jumped in—to see how quickly anyone from the boat or the terminal would rescue me. Or if they would.”
“And I ruined your stunt.”
“Well, never mind—there’ll be other opportunities. I was excited; I just blew up. I’m the one to make amends, I think.” She pressed water from her straight dark hair. “So tell me, Mr. Chance, what is it that you do—besides interrupt journalists at work?” She smiled, perhaps to soften the gibe.
Water oozed from his squeaky shoes as he flexed his toes. “Nothing so far. I just arrived in San Francisco. I hail from Pennsylvania. I need a job.”
“I’m afraid we have nothing at the paper, but there’s always a big enamel pot of coffee on the stove. You could warm up and dry out.” She stood, smoothing her soaked shirtwaist. It clung to her, and he could see clearly that she didn’t have the kind of billowy figure women prized—not Carla Hellman’s kind of figure. But he found her exceedingly attractive.
“I honestly didn’t know women wrote for newspapers,” he said.
“Do you disapprove?”
“Well…” He looked away at some gulls.
“Mr. Chance, your opinion’s written on your face. A woman belongs in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. That’s your concept, isn’t it? You and a million others.”
“Miss Ross, you keep wanting to start a fight.”
“You keep inviting it. You’re living in the past, you and every other man I know. There aren’t many women in journalism so far. But that’s changing—despite the outraged squeals of my colleagues, most of whom seem threatened by the mere sight of a skirt in the editorial rooms. But I’m there, and I’ll stay there. I’m what some people call a sob sister…Mr. Chance, do stop gawking at me. Come along.”
But he couldn’t help gawking; he’d never met any girl like this Nellie Ross—independent, a trifle hard, pretty in an unconventional way. There was something exotic about the shape and tilt of those warm brown eyes.
He hoisted his bundle and followed her up the pier past the old fisherman, who kept his guilty gaze on the water. She said, “If you like, I’ll ask around the office about a job. Someone might know of something. It’s the least I can do for my rescuer.”
“Am I hearing an apology, Miss Ross?”
She seemed to see him, actually see and appraise him, for the first time. And not unfavorably. The tip of her tongue rolled inside her cheek a moment.
“Reporters never apologize. It weakens the air of authority.
“Follow me, Mr. Chance.”
They walked up Market Street, the busiest thoroughfare Mack had ever seen—drays, buggies, horse-drawn trams, impressive buildings, and people everywhere. Above the din, Nellie asked why he’d come to California.
He showed her the guidebook. “Because I’ve always believed what this says…that a man can get rich out here.”
A smile flirted over her face, but an innate kindness suppressed it. Bedraggled and poor as he was, he looked so serious, so determined, that laughter would have cruelly insulted him. She
He shook his head. “I’m new here.”
“My employer, Mr. Hearst, took it over just this year from his father, the senator. He’s the silver millionaire, the senator. Young Mr. Hearst intends to stop the flood of red ink and make the Examiner the best paper in the West. I write for him, under the byline Ramona Sweet. I cover murder trials, train wrecks—the thrill stuff. When there’s no real news, we go out and make news. That’s Mr. Hearst’s way.”
Mack was fascinated. The girl had a short, blunt nose—the peasant touch again—and a forthrightness that added an intriguing spice to her. “Is that what you were doing here?”
Nellie Ross nodded. “Staging a stunt. Mr. Hearst hates the Southern Pacific as much as I do. They’re indifferent to passenger safety. Last month a boy age seven fell off one of their ferry boats. The crew was slow to stop the engines to pick him up, and he drowned. That’s why I jumped in—to see how quickly anyone from the boat or the terminal would rescue me. Or if they would.”
“And I ruined your stunt.”
“Well, never mind—there’ll be other opportunities. I was excited; I just blew up. I’m the one to make amends, I think.” She pressed water from her straight dark hair. “So tell me, Mr. Chance, what is it that you do—besides interrupt journalists at work?” She smiled, perhaps to soften the gibe.
Water oozed from his squeaky shoes as he flexed his toes. “Nothing so far. I just arrived in San Francisco. I hail from Pennsylvania. I need a job.”
“I’m afraid we have nothing at the paper, but there’s always a big enamel pot of coffee on the stove. You could warm up and dry out.” She stood, smoothing her soaked shirtwaist. It clung to her, and he could see clearly that she didn’t have the kind of billowy figure women prized—not Carla Hellman’s kind of figure. But he found her exceedingly attractive.
“I honestly didn’t know women wrote for newspapers,” he said.
“Do you disapprove?”
“Well…” He looked away at some gulls.
“Mr. Chance, your opinion’s written on your face. A woman belongs in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. That’s your concept, isn’t it? You and a million others.”
“Miss Ross, you keep wanting to start a fight.”
“You keep inviting it. You’re living in the past, you and every other man I know. There aren’t many women in journalism so far. But that’s changing—despite the outraged squeals of my colleagues, most of whom seem threatened by the mere sight of a skirt in the editorial rooms. But I’m there, and I’ll stay there. I’m what some people call a sob sister…Mr. Chance, do stop gawking at me. Come along.”
But he couldn’t help gawking; he’d never met any girl like this Nellie Ross—independent, a trifle hard, pretty in an unconventional way. There was something exotic about the shape and tilt of those warm brown eyes.
He hoisted his bundle and followed her up the pier past the old fisherman, who kept his guilty gaze on the water. She said, “If you like, I’ll ask around the office about a job. Someone might know of something. It’s the least I can do for my rescuer.”
“Am I hearing an apology, Miss Ross?”
She seemed to see him, actually see and appraise him, for the first time. And not unfavorably. The tip of her tongue rolled inside her cheek a moment.
“Reporters never apologize. It weakens the air of authority.
“Follow me, Mr. Chance.”
They walked up Market Street, the busiest thoroughfare Mack had ever seen—drays, buggies, horse-drawn trams, impressive buildings, and people everywhere. Above the din, Nellie asked why he’d come to California.
He showed her the guidebook. “Because I’ve always believed what this says…that a man can get rich out here.”
A smile flirted over her face, but an innate kindness suppressed it. Bedraggled and poor as he was, he looked so serious, so determined, that laughter would have cruelly insulted him. She
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