San Francisco's evening newspapers had gone to press one afternoon last week when, about 3:25 p. m., a truck rolled quietly along as though to cross the long new bridge over the bay to Oakland. Far at sea, a couple of steamers plumed on the horizon. Far below, toys on the hammered-silver water of the bay, a couple of launches circled aimlessly.
In the truck a tense-faced man of 30 pulled a football helmet on his head, strapped it firmly under his chin. Unbuttoning his topcoat he fingered a steel-ribbed corset beneath his bathing suit,...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
