FLAMING
YOUTH
118
_A shrick. too authentic in its terror to be misinter-
gta, penetrated the heavy door, followed by a babel. “Turn on that light!” “Open the door.” “No! No!? Bhe’s drowned,
I tell you.”
“Damn
it, where’s
that
pitch?” The electrician threw the door open, made a quick Movement along the wall, and every detail of the scene leapt forth into bold significance. The women were huddled along the side of the pool, all except plump Mrs. Grant who was absurdly striving to draw an end of the net about her, and Sally Dangerfield who was bending above the slim, motionless nudity of Viccy Carson,
stretched along the stairs. “TI stepped on her,” wailed Sally. “She was lying on the bottom.” Half of the men had scattered for their clothes. The others stood, shamed and uncertain, except Cary Scott. In the face of reality in this calamitous form he had remembered an early emergency regimen, thrown himself down beside the woman, and with lips pressed to her inanimate mouth was striving to stimulate her flaccid lungs
to induce breathing.
Desisting for a moment he called:
“She’s alive, I think. Get a doctor.” “Phone for Osterhout, somebody,”
shouted
gerfield. ‘““Wire’s down,” groaned Grant. “Then get a car and go like hell!” “My car is outside,” said the electrician. I to go?” “T’ll show you,” said Dee.
Dan-
“Where am
“Quick!”
Together they darted into the night. Crossing the pebbled courtyard, Dee involuntarily cried out. “What is it?” he demanded.
