"What is it?" she asked.
"Only John," he admitted sadly. "But I don't let 'em call one
John. Everybody's got to call me Jack. I've scrapped with a dozen
fellows that tried to call me John, or Johnnie--wouldn't that
make you sick?--Johnnie!"
They were now off the coal bunkers of Long Wharf, and the boy put
the skiff about, heading toward San Francisco. They were well out
in the open bay. The west wind had strengthened and was
whitecapping the strong ebb tide. The boat drove merrily along.
When splashes of spray flew aboard, wetting them, Saxon laughed,
and the boy surveyed her with approval. They passed a ferryboat,
and the passengers on the upper deck crowded to one side to watch
them. In the swell of the steamer's wake, the skiff shipped
quarter-full of water. Saxon picked up an empty can and looked at
the boy.
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