Rainbow's End by James M. Cain Page B

to loosen the hook. It has a barb on it, so you may have to twist it. But if you can get your fingers on it, you should be able to get it out.”
    She reached, but then said: “I have to stand up.”
    â€œNo! Please! To hell with the hook. Let’s go home and have the lamb.”
    â€œIt’s OK. There’s a hollow here on the side that I can hook my fingers into so if I do lose my balance, I can hang on. Hold everything! I can feel the hook, I’m wobbling it. I have it—wind it in.”
    I did, but she didn’t sit down. She said: “I have to shift my position, so I don’t go plopping down between the tree and the boat.”
    â€œFor God’s sake, be careful—I can’t help you. I have to hang onto this oar so I can steady the boat.”
    â€œThere’s something else in here.”
    â€œProbably a hive of bees. Leave it alone.”
    â€œIt’s not bees, it’s—”
    She handed something to me and asked me to take it, but I dared not let go of the oar, where I had it jammed on bottom, or the boat would veer off and drop her in the water. She said: “It has straps on it and one of them’s caught on something. I can’t get it loose.”
    I had a Boy Scout knife in my pocket. I opened it and gave it to her. She tried to take it from me but couldn’t hang onto whatever it was she had and stretch far enough to get it. I held onto the oar in the water with one hand, then with the other picked up the second oar, laid it on the cross-seat, put the knife on it, and that way lifted it to her. She took it, cut, and then flung something into the boat. Then she stooped down to the front seat and at last was back in. I said: “Let’s go home. Let’s look at what you found.”
    â€œYes, I think we better.”
    We rowed back, beached the boat, then felt our way up the path, and on into the house, both afraid to wonder what we had, yet both hoping. But when we turned the light on we saw what we always knew it would be. There was the red zipper bag, the one Shaw had had, all stuffed out tight, with the end of one strap cut off, where it had caught in some crack inside the hollow. We looked at each other and kissed. Then we pulled the zipper and there the money was, pack after pack of twenties, 100 to the pack, with printed wrappers around them, each reading $2,000. When we felt them, they were damp but not soaking wet.
    â€œOf course,” she exclaimed. “The bag went in the river, too, and water would seep in, but only a little bit at a time, through the zipper. It wasn’t more than a minute before he climbed out beside me.”
    â€œI think we could dry those bills in the oven,” and I snapped it on.
    But after a moment or two, she said, “Dave, why couldn’t we use your plate, that steel thing you have, for cooking fritters? We could heat it, then turn off the heat, put the packs on, and let them stay there and bake. That way, they couldn’t burn, but at the same time, we could see what we’re doing.”
    â€œOK.”
    So that’s how we did it and pretty soon came out with nice new money, all dry, all perfect. “And you know what, Dave?” she whispered. “What the beauty part is? It’s all mine! I have the paper to show—Bob York gave it to me.”
    â€œThat’s right,” I said. “Wonderful.”
    â€œBut that’s not all.”
    â€œYeah? What else?”
    â€œIt’s all ours.”
    â€œLittle Jill, it’s yours.”
    â€œBut what’s mine is yours. After all, you’re God.”
    It was beautiful being with her in the kitchen, knowing it had all turned out right and that now we could be happy. She got the paper out of her bag and let me read it. It was in the form of a letter, signed by Russell Morgan, president of Trans-U.S.&C., and listing the bills by number.
    Then it said something like: “I hereby, as president