Mascola's boats advanced warily, spreading out and covering off the defending fleet as they came. It would be a boat to boat, man to man fight in the darkness.
Head-on, the opposing fleets collided with a crash which twisted their keels and racked their timbers. Lights merged together and became stationary as hull locked with hull in a grinding embrace. The alien crews swarmed to the decks and leaped across the rail upon the American sailors who surged forward to meet them. Fists flashed in the darkness. Men met hand to hand. The night was filled with wild cries, the trampling of heavy feet, the thud of contact of wood meeting wood and flesh meeting flesh. From the center of the struggling mass of men and boats came a sudden flare of light which dispelled the dark shadows cast athwart the vessels and brought into bold relief the struggling figures of the men who battled on the decks.
"Fire!"
The cry was taken up by every throat and echoed down the line. It came to Kenneth Gregory on theextreme end of the left wing where he had been directing the defense of his weakened quarter, by a counter-flanking movement. A boat afire! And right in the center of his fleet! When the tank exploded hundreds of gallons of burning distillate would flood the waters. But he dared not think that far. Whirling theRichardabout, and circling behind his line of boats he dashed away to face the new peril.
The crew of theFlorenceabandoned the attack at the first cry and surged to the hold to fight the conflagration. A gasoline stove, carelessly left burning by one of that vessel's drunken crew, had been overturned by the shock of collision, and had fired the bilge. Fanned by the rising winds, the flames were licking at the oil-soaked timbers and spreading rapidly toward the tanks in the bow.
The alien crew of theFlorencefled in a panic of fear. Leaping to the rail they flung themselves to the deck of a neighboring craft which was already backing away from the ill-fated vessel. From all sides, friend and foe alike drew away from the blazing fishing craft. For the time being the sound of conflict gave place to the rasp of reverse levers, hoarse cries of warning and the labored chug of heavy-duty motors going full astern. In the ever-widening cleared space about the ill-fated derelict the lurid waters were churned into a roseate foam by the frenzied lashing of the heavy propellers of the fishing craft as their masters sought to clear the dangerous area.
As theRichardsped on in the direction of the ever-brightening glare, Gregory's mind kept pace with the rapid pulsing of the high-speed motor. He must tow the blazing vessel clear of the fleet before the tanks exploded.
Dodging among the retreating fishermen he grazed theCurlew'shull and plunged into the open space. Warning cries sounded above the roar of the flames but he did not hear them. His plan, formed on the instant, must be put into execution at once. If it failed, the speed of theRichardwould carry Dickie to a place of safety. It was a fighting chance. That was all.
Swinging theRichardabout, he drove straight for theFlorence.
"Take the wheel, and stand by," he cried to the girl. "If the tank goes, run."
He leaped from his seat as theRichardbreasted the blazing hull and Dickie found herself gripping the big steering wheel before she could utter a protest. Gregory was already in the stern of theRichard. Grasping the stern-anchor chain of the speed-launch, he caught the wire-stays of theFlorenceand pulled himself aboard, dragging the chain after him. For an instant he clung to the rail, shielding his face with his arms. Then he scrambled on deck.
Holding theRichard'sstern close to theFlorence'sbow, Dickie Lang saw Gregory running across the deck. Saw his reeling figure silhouetted against the white glare of the blazing cabin-house. Heard the rattle of the heavy anchor chain of the alien fishing-boat. Keeping theRichardin place with an effort against the wind and chop, she waited. He expected her to stand by.
His hair singed by the heat, with blistering face and burning lungs, Gregory dropped by the snubbing-post in the bow and tugged at the heavy chain and knotted it about the block. Then he made the free end fast to the chain of theRichard. Running to the rail he threw his body over and hung by his hands, searching the air with his feet. Then he felt the deck of theRichardbeneath him.
Dickie Lang had stood by.
The next instant he was again at the wheel and theRichardlunged forward.
"Steady," cautioned the girl. "Don't take the slack so fast. Hard a port. Now kick your stern over. That's the stuff. Pay out. Now you've got her."
For an instant theRichardquivered with anger to find herself in leash by the fiery incubus at her stern. Then she settled doggedly to work and the two vessels began to gather way. To the right and left the fishing-boats scattered before them. The tanks of the blazing tow might explode at any minute. It was best to be in the clear. In the common fear of the new danger the contending factions drew apart, friend and foe uniting in the universal effort to gain a place of safety. The wind caught the blaze and fanned it upward in a solid sheet of flame which blistered the varnish of theRichard'sstern-deck.
"Get down," Gregory shouted above the roar of the speed-boat's exhaust.
Dickie started to protest when she felt herself jerked roughly from the seat.
"There's nothing you can do now. Lie still. Keep your head covered." The tone was gruff, the words commanding, spoken by a man. A man who thought of the safety of others and placed it before his own. A man who was not afraid to take chances. Dickie's heart glowed with pride as she huddled in theRichard'scockpit. It was worth while to know a man like that.
Mascola watched the progress of the burningFlorencefrom the deck of theLura. His blood-shot eyes gleamed red in the glow from the burning vessel and the lust of destruction surged into his heart. He was losing one of his best boats. Somebody must pay.
In the light of the fire he saw the vessels of the defense scattered. Now would be his chance to crowd through to the fishing fleet. With the wind and sea at his back he would pile them up on the rocks. Jumping to theFuor d'Italiahe sped away to direct the attack upon the heavily laden fishing-boats.
Clear the fishing fleet and shunt theFlorenceto the rocks with the wind and current. For the space of a few seconds it was Gregory's only thought. The rising wind at his back was hot with the fevered breath of the burning tow. What did it matter if the heat was scorching his neck? Only a few boatsremained ahead. Then he would be in the clear. If the tanks of theFlorenceexploded he must crawl to the stern and cut the tow-line. The crested waves began to slap angrily at the speed-boat's hull. Then theRichard'smotor began to miss.
"She's all right. Keep down. I can——"
A muffled roar interrupted his words. The hull of theFlorencebulged. A jet of flame mounted upward from the deck. The engine-house tottered and collapsed in a shower of glowing sparks which filled the air and rained down into theRichard'scockpit. A stream of burning oil surged up from the hull of the derelict and tumbled into the sea, blazing fiercely on the crest of the waves.
"Take the boat."
Before the girl could gain the wheel Gregory was fighting his way to the stern. As Dickie's fingers closed on the steering-wheel he was slashing at the rope spliced to the chain. With blistered hands and burning lungs he hacked at the tough strands of hemp with his pocket-knife. The threads of the line snapped and crinkled from the heat. The water about the speed-craft's stern was on fire. Tottering drunkenly, he bent low and held his breath. The rope was more than half severed. The threads were already parting from the strain. Then the knife slipped from his blistered fingers and fell into the water.
Mascola witnessed the explosion of theFlorence'sfirst oil tank with a grim smile. The vessel was already clear of the fleet. She could do no damagenow save to theRichardand her crew. With his eyes fixed on the fire, Mascola prayed to his saints that the second and larger tank might explode before Gregory could sever the tow-line. Fascinated by the sight, he moved farther to windward and watched.
Kenneth Gregory's bleeding fingers tore at the straining fiber of the quivering line which bound theRichardto destruction. One by one the threads snapped and curled in the heat radiated from the burning vessel.
Dickie Lang huddled in the driver's seat and jerked the hull of the speed-craft frantically against the strain of the tow-line. For an instant death held them by a single strand. Then the line parted and theRichardleaped to safety. The cool rush of air revived Gregory's senses and he found himself leaning weakly against the coaming of the speed-boat. Then he heard the girl calling from the wheel.
"Mascola's broken through."
He gulped in the moist sea air and groped his way forward. Far astern the wreck burned fiercely, bringing into bold relief the frowning peaks which fringed the shore-line of El Diablo. As he caught at the rail for support he saw the flames leap skyward, blackened by smoke and bits of timber. The waves burned brightly about the settling hull. Then came the sound of the explosion of theFlorence'ssecond tank.
"Mascola's broken through. Can't you hear me? Are you hurt?"
Gregory staggered to the seat and dropped beside the girl.
"I'll be all right in a minute," he said. "Keep going. I can't see very well yet. You say he got through?"
"Yes. He's trying to crowd the fishing fleet to the rocks. Look!"
In the light that the burning vessel astern cast upon the waters ahead, Gregory saw a confused jumble of boats crowded close against the saw-toothed reef.
"Damn him!" he grated. "We'll beat him yet. Slow down. Give me the wheel."
Dickie relinquished the steering-wheel with reluctance.
"We ought to be putting to sea," she observed as a sudden gust of wind and rain assailed them. "This is a bad place to be caught napping."
Gregory's eyes glowed with the lust of battle. "No," he gritted. "We're going to stay and fight. Mascola's not going to win on a fluke if it costs me every boat I have."
In a frenzy of activity he threw theRichardwide open and sped away to gather his scattered boats for a flank attack upon the alien fleet.
Mascola was in high good humor. His boats were crowding the fishermen backward in the direction of the reef. Forced to the rocks they would have no chance in the face of the approaching storm. What was the loss of theFlorencein comparison to the destruction of a dozen or more fully equipped fishingvessels, laden to the water-line with their valuable cargoes?
Repairing to the cabin of theLura, the Italian refreshed himself with a drink. A shout from without brought him hurrying to the deck. Bearing down upon him at full speed came the cannery fleet. His vessels were broadside. They would strike him full on the beam. Cut his boats in two. Mascola shrieked out an order to put about and face the enemy. His captains sprang to their respective wheels and battled desperately among themselves for steerage way.
Then came the crash.
Skirting the mass of snapping grinding hulls, Gregory shot through with theRichardand came among the fishing-boats. Some were already grazing the reef. A line from the speed-craft pulled them again to safety and launched them around Mascola's rear. Fighting their way through the press of the alien craft they circled and renewed the attack from the opposite flank. Mascola's fleet was caught broadside between the Americans.
The din of the battle mingled with the roar of the wind. Again men met over the rail. Knives flashed in the sullen glare from the burningFlorence. Pistol shots echoed above the tumult and the air was filled with flying splinters.
Slowly and inexorably Mascola's fleet was ground back. An alien craft, reaching the clear space to the rear of the battle line, turned hastily about and fleddown the narrow channel leading to the sea. Another followed. Still another.
Mascola strove vainly with shouts and curses to stem the tide of his retreating vessels, but the boats brushed by him and continued on their way. Soon the exodus became a rout with hull scraping hull in the effort of the alien boats to gain sea-way in the channel.
In a few minutes the last of Mascola's fleet, leaking badly and settling low in the water, lumbered by with rapidly pulsing motor in the direction of Northwest Harbor.
"We beat him at his own game." Kenneth Gregory repeated the words again and again. Blood flowed from a jagged cut in his cheek. His face and hands were raw and blistered, but his eyes were shining with the light of victory.
In the shadow of thePelicanhis arms closed about Dickie Lang and he drew her to him. "We beat him," he cried. "You, and the boys, and I."
The girl struggled for a moment, then lay passive in his arms. He was delirious from the fire and the battle. He did not know what he was doing. Freeing herself with an effort from his clinging arms she drew away.
"We must put to sea," she cried. "Before the storm breaks."
Gregory roused at her words and turned quickly away.
"Yes," he answered. "You're right. I forgot."
Within a few minutes the cannery fleet was heading down the main harbor channel in the direction of the open sea.
Then the storm broke. Battling desperately into the teeth of the gale, the fishing-boats plunged head-on into the curling waves. Lashing the sea into white-caps, the wind picked up the water and hurled it to the decks in great clouds of choking, blinding spray.
In a last dying flare the flames leaped upward from the charred hull of theFlorenceas she lay pillowed on the rocks. And in the feeble glow, only Hawkins, who was looking astern, saw the shadowy outline of a long gray boat nosing her way about the island.
TheGray Ghostwas running before the storm.
Foot by foot down the storm-lashed, wind-swept channel the victorious cannery fleet doggedly fought its way from the Diablo coast and headed to sea.
"We've got to lay in at San Anselmo," Dickie Lang shouted to Gregory as she guided theRichardskilfully through the buffeting waves. "Some of the boats are pretty badly stove up. They're riding too low to try to make the mainland. We'd have to buck the storm all the way over. Best run before it as long as we can. Then we can gain the lea of the other island and head in at Cavalan and leave some of the boats there. May have to run a few of them on the beach. We ought to make the little harbor on the south shore of San Anselmo in a couple of hours."
Gregory agreed with some reluctance. When it came to seamanship he was perfectly willing to leave the management of his craft to Dickie Lang. The girl was familiar with the coast of the two islands and had fully demonstrated her ability to handle theRichardin a storm. Still the idea of running from Diablo rankled in his heart. It looked like quitting.
The girl's next words, however, made him feel a little better.
"There would be no use lying in at Northwest Harbor at Diablo," she was saying. "The anchorage is too small and Mascola's boats will overcrowd it. If you tried to beach anything there, you'd wreck it. At Cavalan we can check things up, transfer the fish if we have to and get them right out. We've beaten Mascola, hands down, so why should we care?"
It was well toward morning before the last of the cannery fleet staggered into the little harbor of Cavalan. Then came the first opportunity to reckon the cost of Mascola's defeat at Diablo.
Gregory's first thought was for the personnel of his fleet. In the fight with the alien fishermen several of his men had been injured, but as near as could be ascertained, none fatally. A number of men had been slashed by knives, but the injuries for the most part were only flesh wounds. There were many aching heads and bruised bodies. Two sailors and a fisherman had been grazed by bullets. One man's arm had been broken.
To a man the various crews made light of their injuries and proudly maintained that they had left their mark on many a dark-skinned member of Mascola's aliens.
Bronson had partly recovered and was anxiously inquiring concerning the behavior of the speed-craft in the storm.
While Gregory directed the transferring of theinjured men to the better equipped launches, Dickie checked up the material damage inflicted upon the tonnage.
On theCurlewGregory encountered Hawkins. The newspaper man was jubilant. The victory over the aliens was just what he needed. He had anticipated the outcome and had already sent out a full account of the struggle with the aliens over the radio. The people of Port Angeles would be reading it in a couple of hours.
As Hawkins assisted Gregory in caring for the needs of the men, the reporter hinted that he was on the trail of a bigger story which would make all his former journalistic efforts pale into insignificance. But when questioned concerning the specific nature of his scoop, Hawkins became extremely reticent.
Dickie Lang's report upon the condition of the fishing-boats added materially to the cost of the victory. Four of the craft had been jammed in the mêlée and were leaking badly. How they ever made port at all was a thing she could not understand. Three of the other vessels had sustained bent shafts and broken propeller blades. All the fleet were more or less battle-scarred but their defects could be remedied in the water. She had set the men to work already. There was a machine shop at Anacapa on the opposite side of the island and a marine railway large enough to take on the disabled craft. When the blow subsided, they could put in there for temporary repairs.
The girl's eyes glowed with happiness as shetotaled the catch of the fishermen. Every boat was laden almost to its full capacity. With a storm coming on and in the face of a probable shortage of fish, the success of the night's work would reach a substantial figure.
"It's worth more than you know," put in Hawkins. "Wait until my yarn gets into print and I'll show you." He smiled broadly and put out his hand. "Then I want my rake-off, Cap. Gregory," he concluded.
"I won't forget you, Bill," Gregory was quick to answer. "Nor any one else. I knew the boys would stand by to a finish. They sure came across to-night."
He turned quickly to Dickie Lang. "When can we start out with the fish?" he asked.
"Figuring to go at daybreak," the girl answered. "Better send Jack a message right away so he can be ready for them. They'll have to buck the blow so it will be afternoon by the time they get over."
She looked out across the faintly graying waters where brightening lights began to appear from the shadowy hulls of the fishing-boats. Then she inhaled the air hungrily.
"Look," she exclaimed. "The boys are getting breakfast. Let's go over to theSnipeand tie in with them. They've got a man there from the regular navy who can surely cook."
Gregory and Hawkins welcomed the suggestion and a moment later they were speeding away to answer to the first call for breakfast.
In the lea of San Anselmo, sheltered from the stormin the land-locked little harbor of Cavalan, the American fleet rested from its labors. The sailors gathered on the decks and greeted the new day over plates piled high with crisp slices of bacon and fried eggs. The night had been long, fraught with danger and fatiguing toil; but work and worry had endured only for the night and joy came with the morning.
Silvanus Rock was nervous and ill-tempered. Consuming his third cup of strong black coffee, he rose from the breakfast table and walked to the French windows and glared out at the curling waves as they flung themselves upon the beach.
His devoted spouse gazed after him with a sigh. "Something is preying on father's mind," she whispered to De Lancy, the only son and heir to the Rock fortune. "He didn't sleep a wink last night."
De Lancy scowled. "That doesn't give him any license to take it out on me," he growled, as he pushed back his chair and lit a cigarette. "When I tried to interest him in that new racing car, he landed on me all in a heap and——"
His words were interrupted by the entrance of the maid.
"Some one to see Mr. Rock," she announced.
Rock whirled and hurried toward her. Then he caught a glimpse of the roughly garbed man who was standing by the desk in his den. Peters had arrived at last. The anxious lines deepened on Silvanus Rock's forehead and he made haste to join his visitor.
Mrs. Rock pursed her lips as she noticed the stranger. "I can not understand why your father persists in having such disreputable-looking men visit him in his home," she confided to her son.
De Lancy sluffed the cigarette ashes into his coffee cup, before replying. "Well, whoever the 'low-brow' is, here's hoping he'll put the old man in a better humor."
In his wish De Lancy was not disappointed. For a short time the visitor remained closeted with Rock in the capitalist's den. Then Rock escorted his guest to the door and De Lancy noticed that the old man had opened up some of his best cigars. It was a good sign.
Silvanus Rock entered the sun-room, all smiles.
"I believe I'll try some of those waffles, mother, if they are still handy," he exclaimed. "My headache's passed off and I'm feeling quite myself again." He beamed on his son. "And now, De Lancy, you were telling me about that new car. It seems to me like a pretty stiff price but I guess you might as well go ahead and order it."
When the bank president reached his office some time later after a visit to the Golden Rule Fish Cannery, he greeted his employees with effusive good-humor. Leaving orders that he was not to be disturbed by any one except Mr. Peters, he passed into his private office, dropped heavily into a chair and began to figure. His pudgy fingers trembled about the pen as he scratched on the pad before him. Then he tore the paper containing his calculations into littlebits, tossed them into the waste-basket and smiled benignly. His latest business venture had succeeded far beyond his fondest expectations.
A tap came on his door and Mr. Peters again made his appearance.
Rock surveyed him anxiously. "No mistake I hope, Peters, in the good news," he quavered. "Everything's all right I trust."
Peters nodded and drew up a chair close to Rock's side. "This one's about the fishing-boats," he said in a low voice. "They got into a scrap with the American boats off Northwest Harbor. Bandrist says that Gregory's fleet won out. Mascola's lay in at the harbor. TheFlorenceburned up and a lot of his other boats are pretty well shot. He couldn't stop the other fellows at all and they loaded up."
Rock frowned at the news.
"Well, well," he ejaculated. "That is bad. Though not of course as bad as it might be. No answer to that one, Peters."
A few moments later when the financier was again alone in his office, the cashier entered. "The credit man from the Canners' Supply Company is here," he announced. "He's asking for information about the Legonia Fish Cannery. Thought I'd better refer him to you."
Rock's thick lips closed grimly. "Show him in," he ordered, and bit savagely at his cigar.
Mr. Booker made his appearance at once. "We have a little account with the Legonia Fish Cannery,"he began. "As it is some time past due we were beginning to get a little anxious. A word from you will put us straight."
"What's the amount of your claim?"
"Twelve hundred and thirty-five dollars."
The hopeful expression which had leaped to Rock's face gave place to one of gloom. Then he asked:
"What is the nature of your claim?"
"Machinery and the labor of installing," supplied Booker.
A gleam of hope entered Rock's beady eyes. "Between you and me, Mr. Booker," he said. "The Legonia Fish Cannery is pretty much involved at the present time. Their organization is one which might cause you some difficulty in securing the amount of your claim. If you care to assign it to me for collection I think I can handle the matter satisfactorily."
Booker did not notice the suppressed eagerness of the bank president's tone. He was new at the job, replacing the regular credit man who was away on his vacation. Perhaps it would be well to accept Mr. Rock's offer.
"What fee would you charge for your services?" he inquired warily.
Rock spread out his fat hands with a depreciatory gesture.
"Just between friends, Mr. Booker," he said warmly. "Your firm is too well-known by me to make even a nominal charge for so trifling a favor. Whatever I am able to do for you in this regard, is yours forthe asking." Seeing that the credit man was wavering, Rock continued: "I am so sure that I can adjust the claim satisfactorily that if you desire I will give you my own personal check for the amount right away. Then you can forget the entire matter. Mr. Gregory is a personal friend of mine and though, as I say, his affairs are somewhat involved, I know that he will attend to the matter at once if approached in the right way."
Booker hesitated.
"I'd better call on Mr. Gregory first," he said.
"That will be a hard matter," Rock interrupted. "Unless you care to go to the expense of making a trip to Diablo Island. Mr. Gregory left yesterday for a protracted stay in the deep-sea fishing grounds."
Booker considered. His firm was very desirous of having him return with the cash which was sore needed at the present time. Collecting the claim would be quite a feather in his cap. Rock's statements concerning the Fish Cannery, he noticed, were somewhat contradictory. But that was up to Rock. An account like this, the chances were, would not be worth much anyway. He could explain the whole matter to Dunham when he got back.
"All right, Mr. Rock," he said at length. "If you want to buy the claim outright, you can have it. I won't assign."
Rock reached for his check-book. A few moments later saw the deal closed. When Booker had left,Rock turned to the telephone. When he was in communication with the local judge, he said:
"I'd like to see you as soon as possible, Tom.—Yes, it's important.—All right. I'll be right down."
Somewhat in advance of Silvanus Rock's breakfast hour, Mr. Dupont entered the White Front Restaurant at Port Angeles and made his way toward his accustomed table in the sunlit alcove. His favorite waitress pulled out his chair and handed him his morning paper with a smile.
"I have a special for you this morning," she announced, "which will make your mouth water."
Mr. Dupont smacked his lips with boyish enthusiasm. "What is it?" he inquired.
"Corn-fed mackerel from the new Service Market which opened yesterday."
Mr. Dupont raised his eyebrows inquiringly, and the girl explained:
"A lot of service men have started a fish stall in a corner of the old California Market around the block from here. They just put in a few yesterday but from the way they sold out, I'd say they'd need the whole building before long. Our manager got around just in time to pick up the last of yesterday's catch. I saved one of them for you."
While the girl attended to his order, the resident manager of Winfield & Camby turned his attention to his paper. When the waitress returned with thecrisply browned fish, she was obliged to speak twice before she was able to gain Mr. Dupont's attention.
Hovering about his chair, she watched her patron nibble at the carefully-prepared delicacy with his eyes fixed intently upon his newspaper. The dimples disappeared quickly from the girl's face as she noted that the mackerel were growing cold. Then she turned from the table with a sigh. Men did not care what they ate as long as they had their paper.
Mr. Dupont finished his perusal of the news and shoved back his chair, leaving the special scarcely tasted.
"That was fine," he ejaculated. "Wish I had time to finish it. But I have a number of things to 'tend to before going to the office. By the way, where did you say that new market was located?"
He rose as he spoke and as the waitress again gave him the location of the building he sought, he pressed a substantial tip into her hand and hurried to the street. At the entrance to the California Market, he mingled with the throng and elbowed his way through the crowd which packed a corner of the big building. Then he adjusted his nose-glasses and peered over their heads.
Behind a rudely constructed counter of rough boards three smiling young men were endeavoring to satisfy the demands made upon them for the rapidly disappearing contents of a number of fish-boxes behind the counter. All about them were hastily scrawled signs which the public read with interest.
WE HAVE DECLARED WAR ON THE HIGH COST OF LIVING.—FRESH FISH AT FIFTY PER CENT. OFF.—WE ARE DEALING DIRECT WITH THE PEOPLE.—SHOOT SQUARE WITH US AND WE WILL SHOOT SQUARE WITH YOU.
While Mr. Dupont read, another sign made its appearance.
"SOLD OUT. COME AGAIN."
Winfield & Camby's office force were surprised to find the manager on the job when they reached the salesrooms.
"Send me Mr. Black."
Mr. Dupont's orders were crisp and the publicity man hurried to obey his bidding.
"Bring me those clippings on that Legonia Fish Cannery stuff, Black. Also the ads in to-day's papers. Have you read that story of the mix-up between the Americans and the alien fishermen at Diablo Island?"
Black admitted he had not.
"GetThe Timesand read it," snapped the manager. "Come alive, Black, and as soon as Dalton comes in, tell him I want to see him right away."
It was high noon at Cavalan when thePelicanreentered the harbor after cruising in the open sea to pick up any words that might come from McCoy overthe radio. Gregory watched the progress of thePelicanfrom the deck of the Albatross.
"Looks as if they'd picked up something at last," he observed. "Hope it's from the fleet, saying they arrived at the cannery all right."
"They've hardly had time to make it yet," objected Dickie Lang. "I wouldn't expect to hear from them at Legonia for at least two hours."
The wireless operator appeared on deck as thePelicandrew abreast of theAlbatross. "Message for Mr. Gregory," he shouted.
Gregory took the paper and glanced eagerly at the message. It was from McCoy and it read:
Rock here with attachment papers to tie us up pending payment of claim bought by him from Canners' Supply Company. We have until four o'clock to answer. Wire what to do.
Gregory glanced at his watch as he handed the message to Dickie Lang. Jumping to the deck of thePelicanhe found Tom Howard.
"Tom," he said, "I want you to put to sea at once. Travel a straight course for Legonia and keep the radio going all the time. We'll be alongside in theRichard. Give us the answer you get over the radio by megaphone. Perhaps then it won't be necessary for us to go all the way over. But if it should be, we've got to get there before four o'clock."
Turning to the radio man, he dictated a message to Farnsworth setting forth the situation and instructingthe attorney to take whatever steps were advisable to stay the attachment. The message was to be forwarded to Farnsworth from the cannery. It would give the lawyer time to act if he got busy at once.
Returning to theAlbatross, Gregory went over his plans with Dickie Lang.
"I'm going, too," the girl announced. "You are all in. It will be no fun driving theRichardto-day. If you do have to go across, you haven't much chance of making it on time in weather like this. Especially if we have to lag along with thePelican."
"I know it," Gregory answered. "But I'm not figuring we'll have to go very far. But if we do have to go all the way we've got to be at Legonia before four o'clock. We've beaten Mascola but we'll lose all we've gained if we don't beat Rock."
Hawkins sensed that something important was taking place and straightway determined to accompany the party. A few minutes later theRichardand thePelicanrounded the tip of San Anselmo and headed into the storm. Then Hawkins' professional curiosity got the better of him.
"What's the big idea?" he asked.
Gregory explained, concluding optimistically: "I'm not worrying much. Farnsworth can fix things up all right. Then we'll go back to Cavalan."
"If he doesn't you can put up a bond for double the amount of the claim," Hawkins advised. "That will stay the attachment until you can raise the cash.You'd have to get it in person though—and before four o'clock."
He looked at his watch.
"You'll have to go some to do that," he said. "If you could cutloosefrom thePelicanit would be a cinch, but of course you've got to wait until you get an answer to your message."
For some time the two boats fought their way through the rising waves. Then the fishing-boat signaled theRichardto draw closer. Gregory listened intently for the words of the man with the megaphone as he appeared on thePelican'sdeck. The operator's message came faintly to them above the roar of the wind.
Mr. Farnsworth left his office at noon to-day on motor trip to country. Not expected to return until Monday. Little hope of reaching him to-night but will keep trying.
McCoy.
Hawkins swore softly at the intelligence. It was one-thirty already. Not much chance of reaching Legonia in time to accomplish much to-day.
"Tell McCoy I'll be at the cannery before four o'clock."
Dickie flashed a glance at the clock on theRichard'sdash at Gregory's words. Every minute was going to count. It was up to the speed-boat to show what she could do. Opening the cut-out, the girl began to get the speed-craft under way. With a roarwhich drowned out the wind, theRichardmounted to the white-capped swells and raced for the mainland. There was only one chance in a hundred of making it on time. She set her lips grimly and gripped the wheel. If it was only one in a thousand,she'dtake it—for Kenneth Gregory.
"What time is it?"
Gregory huddled to the floor of the cockpit and drew out his watch. "Two-thirty," he shouted above the frenzied snapping of the open exhaust.
Dickie hurled theRichardinto a mounting wall of green water which tottered above them. Then she cried through set lips: "Just about half-way. We're over the worst of it though. The nearer we get to shore the better time we'll make. We're sure going to need it too."
Gregory nodded absent-mindedly. His mind was filled with the problem of what he was going to do if he did arrive at Legonia on time. Dickie had made a wonderful run thus far, had handled theRichardmasterfully against wind and wave, had more than done her part. Soon her work would be done. Then his would begin. And what was he going to do?
The sum to be raised would have once seemed trifling. What would twelve hundred dollars have amounted to three months ago? Now, it looked like a million. There was no chance of raising it to-day. He must secure a bond.
Rock had played his hand well. The bank president had hit in some way upon a plan of injuring him while he was away. And Rock could injure him. A tie-up at such a time would rob him of all he had gained by beating Mascola at El Diablo. The fishing fleet were loaded to the gunwales with albacore. The fish must be worked up at once. A loss of even twenty-four hours would render them worthless.
Gregory reflected bitterly that he had other creditors. Had Rock obtained other due and unpaid accounts? Even if such were not the case, the shutting down of his plant might be the signal for other wholesalers to launch a similar attack upon his credit. He realized sharply that he was accomplishing nothing. Merely thinking in circles. Hawkins had suggested putting up a bond. The newspaperman was doubtless familiar with the procedure. Perhaps it could be effected if they arrived early enough to arrange the matter. He turned to his friend for enlightenment.
"How long would it take for me to get a bond?" he asked.
Hawkins' usually cheery countenance clouded, as he replied:
"Not long, if you could find a surety company agent in his office. But the trouble is this is Saturday. I didn't think of it until you got that wire from your attorney. It's a legal holiday for the courts and it's hard to find anybody around you want." Hawkins' frown grew blacker as he continued: "Then there's another thing. You've got to have the judge approvethe bond, granting you're lucky enough to get it. And looking for a judge on Saturday afternoon is like looking for the proverbial needle."
Hawkins placed a hand wearily over his eyes and lapsed into silence.
Jack McCoy was at his wit's end. The fishing fleet from Diablo had just arrived, loaded with albacore. The captains reported a rough trip all the way over. They had seen or heard nothing from Gregory since leaving Cavalan. McCoy paced up and down the dock while he superintended the unloading of the fish. What a haul they had made! But what good would it do them? The whole plant would be tied up in less than an hour.
He jerked out his watch and looked at it again. It was seven minutes after three. Walking to the bay-side, he shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed anxiously in the direction of the inlet. Granting that Gregory arrived within the next half-hour, what could he possibly accomplish in so short a time? All McCoy's efforts to confer with Rock had been fruitless. The bank president could not be located and had left but one word.
He would be at the cannery at four o'clock.
The low-lying clouds which hung about the entrance to Crescent Bay rifted sullenly and exposed the ragged line of rocks which made up the jetty.
"Right on the dot," Dickie Lang exclaimed. "Iwas afraid maybe I was too far down. What time is it now?"
"Three-thirty," Gregory answered. "We ought to dock in ten minutes."
"We'll be there in five unless I run into something going down the harbor."
"Stop at the municipal dock first," Gregory instructed her. "I'm going to run ashore and try to get a bond. Then we'll go on to the cannery."
Hawkins roused himself from his lethargy as they sped down the bay.
"I can help you some," he announced. "I can go on your bond. I own at least three times the amount of the claim in real estate in this county. That will save us some time. We can get a blank form from a notary and have him fill it out. Then all we've got to do is to find the judge."
"Doesn't Rock have to put up a bond, too?" Gregory asked. "He's trying his best to damage me. Haven't I any come-back?"
"Don't bank on Rock's bond," Hawkins answered. "He has to put one up, but it's pretty liable to be 'straw.' Fellows like him generally have a strangle-hold on a little place like this and they are pretty sure of their ground before they shoot. The chances are Rock's in the clear with a 'dummy' or else his property is all under cover. I'm going to make it my business to look the old fellow up and see how he's fixed. Men like him don't do anything without a motive. I'm going to try to find out what Rock is up to."
At the municipal docks Gregory and Hawkins debarked hastily and ran down the main street of the town. Contrary to the newspaperman's fears they were successful in finding a young notary in his office. Stimulated by the promise of an extra fee, the man made out the papers in record time.
"Where can we find the local judge?" Gregory asked quickly.
The notary shook his head.
"Hard telling," he answered. "He went out a while ago with Mr. Rock and one of the real estate men in this office to look at a piece of property. Haven't seen Joe back since so I suppose they're still out."
When Gregory arrived at the cannery it lacked ten minutes of being four o'clock. Hurrying to the office the party from theRichardencountered McCoy talking with a well-dressed stranger.
"Here's Mr. Gregory now," exclaimed the house-manager running over to meet his employer. "What luck?" he whispered.
A glance at Gregory's face, however, was all McCoy needed to answer his question. The boss had failed to stay the attachment. The plant would be shut down and all the fish from Diablo would rot on the docks.
The visitor stepped forward with a smile and introduced himself. "I'm Mr. Dalton, of Winfield & Camby," he said pleasantly. "I kind of stole a march on you people to-day. Came down to inspect at thefirm's request and found you all so busy that I just sneaked into your warehouse and went to work without saying anything to anybody." He smiled, as he added: "We kind of like to do that. With a new firm especially. It prevents them 'stacking' on us."
"Have you finished your inspection?"
Gregory put the question with suppressed eagerness.
Dalton nodded. "Yes," he answered. "I'm well enough satisfied. Your stuff is fully up to par. Perhaps a little better than some standards. If you are willing to hold to your schedule of prices which you gave Mr. Dupont I'm ready to tie up with you right now."
A gleam of hope flashed to Gregory's eye.
"Isn't it customary to make a part payment when the contract is signed?" he asked.
Dalton smiled and shook his head.
"Ten dollars is enough," he answered.
Gregory's eyes were fixed earnestly on the representative from Winfield & Camby.
"Listen, Mr. Dalton," he said. "I've got to have twelve hundred and thirty-five dollars by four o'clock or I'll lose thousands. I've got fifteen boats outside loaded to the water-line with albacore besides all the canned stuff on the floor. I own the building, machinery and twenty-five fishing-boats. There's not a dollar against any part of it. I guess you've looked me up already and you know I'm telling the truth. If you give me an advance of twelve hundred and thirty-fivedollars I'll close right now and pay you any interest you want. But I've got to have the money right now."
Dalton jerked out his watch.
"Hardly time," he answered. "Even if Dupont would O.K. it, which I doubt."
Gregory was already at the telephone.
"I'll get him for you. Can you let me have the money if he says it's all right?"
As Dalton nodded in affirmation, Gregory's eye fell upon the open watch upon the desk. It lacked five minutes of four o'clock.
Mr. Dupont was seated in his private office puffing contentedly at a long panatella when the door opened and the publicity man entered.
"What's new, Black? Anything?"
Black smiled and dropped into a chair.
"Nothing new," he said. "It's getting to be an old story. Every evening paper in the city copied that fellow Hawkins' yarn inThe Timesabout the sea fight at Diablo Island. Why, that man Gregory has enough free publicity to elect him to Congress. And he's advertising on the strength of it, like a department store. I was around to his service market a few minutes ago and people were fighting to get within shouting distance of the counter. I'd say he was a mighty good bet right now, Dupont. That stuff has the town all lit up. If his output is anywhere near up to standard I'd say it would be good business to tie him up and beat the others to it."
As Mr. Dupont was about to speak, the telephone bell interrupted.
"Yes," he answered. "On the phone. Hello, Dalton.—What's that?—Yes, I get you.—How's the stuff?—It is, eh? How's that?—I see.—What do you think?—You would?—All right, Dalton. Sure, go ahead. Drop in at the apartments when you get back. I want to have a look at that contract."
Mr. Dalton hung up the instrument and faced about. "You win," he exclaimed. "Caught the old man just right. He'd have given me a month's vacation on full pay if I'd have had the nerve to have asked for it." He wrote the check hurriedly as he spoke and passed it over to Gregory with the words: "And now, don't forget that you still have the contract to sign."
Gregory took the check with shaking fingers, at a loss for words to express fittingly his appreciation of the favor.
A moment later the door opened and Silvanus Rock entered with two strangers. The financier was on time. In another few seconds the hands of the watch would be pointing to four o'clock. Rock's beady eyes opened wider as he took in the occupants of the room.
"I regret that circumstances have forced upon me a very unpleasant duty," he began, but Gregory cut him short.
"They haven't," he said. "You guessed wrong this time, Mr. Rock. You've come for your money. Here it is."
Endorsing the check, he passed it over.
Silvanus Rock's fat fingers closed about the check and his small eyes glinted. For a moment his heavy jaw sagged and the flabby flesh gathered in rolls and pressed tightly against his white collar. At length he found his voice. "This check is not certified," he exclaimed hotly. "I refuse to take it."
Dalton smiled.
"I guess that check isn't worrying you much, Mr. Rock," he said easily. "We're both pretty well acquainted with Winfield & Camby's reputation and between you and me, I hardly think they would relish any inference like that coming from a man in your position here."
Rock gulped, as he recognized the representative of the big jobbers. Still he hesitated, rolling the check nervously in his fingers.
Then Hawkins pressed forward.
"Don't urge him to take that check, Cap, if he doesn't want to," he drawled. "In fact I think it would make a much better story if he turned it down in the presence of all these witnesses."
Rock confronted Hawkins angrily. "Who are you?" he demanded.
Hawkins introduced himself with a happy smile. "I've been wanting to meet you for some time, Mr. Rock," he said. "I'm with the Port AngelesDaily Times. Since coming to Legonia I have become much interested in the local fishing situation. As yet thereare several things I'm not quite clear on. I believe you could enlighten me. What about an interview?"
Rock's face purpled, then grew white. His beady eyes shifted nervously from one person to another, and focused at last on Kenneth Gregory.
"I'll take the check," he said thickly in a voice that shook with emotion.
It was some time later when the business of the day came to a satisfactory close. Winfield & Camby's representative had departed with his signed contract which McCoy had designated as a "gilt-edge proposition." The fish were all unloaded and the night-shift had already started to work on them. The events of the past two days were beginning to bear fruit.
Mascola had been beaten. Rock had been beaten. The sea itself had been beaten by Dickie Lang and theRichard. All of these things had been gone over again and again. Weak from the reaction of the continued strain under which they had labored, the quartette of principals in the cannery drama slouched deep in their chairs and conversation began to lag.
Then Dickie Lang broke the silence.
"We've all forgotten to eat," she exclaimed. "If you'll all come up to the house I know Aunt Mary will do her best for you."
Gregory, Hawkins and McCoy accepted the invitation in unison. As they followed the girl out, Gregory observed to McCoy:
"I can't understand why Winfield & Camby facedabout so suddenly. Why, they saved our lives. Who would have thought it?"
"I would," Hawkins cut in. "Anybody would who stopped to think." He slapped Gregory affectionately on the shoulder. "Didn't I tell you, Cap, that I'd have old Dupont eating out of your hand in less than a week?" he challenged. "Old leather-face has an ear to the ground. He's heard the rumble of my thunder and he wants to get to cover."
His face lighted with enthusiasm as he went on: "Just wait until the lightning begins to play around some of these birds. Then you'll see them scamper. I'm going to the city to-morrow to have a talk with the C.E. and I've just got a sneaking hunch that I'm going to start something."
The days that followed the return of the victorious cannery fleet from El Diablo were filled with sunshine for Kenneth Gregory. The effect of Mascola's defeat was far-reaching, and, magnified by Hawkins' publicity, gave to the Legonia Fish Cannery a place of prominence in the public eye.
Taking immediate advantage of the growing popular interest, Winfield & Camby entered into an extensive advertising campaign on behalf of Gregory's product. The brands of the local firm were flaunted on the bill-boards of a dozen western agencies. Whole states were placarded. Newspapers featured the cooperative enterprise of the service men and commented upon it in glowing terms. A current-news company took several hundred feet of film illustrative of the industry and the signal victory achieved by the Americans over the alien fishermen.
Basking in the reflected lime-light, the Service Market caught on like "wild-fire" and taxed the fishermen to their utmost to supply the ever-increasing demand for the fresh product.
Gregory's bank balance began to mount. The financial sky was unclouded. Success loomed bright upon the horizon.
In the hey-day of prosperity, no one noticed the faint clouds which crept upward from the sky-line. Storm-signals fluttered feebly and were passed by unheeded. Then Mr. Dupont, of Winfield & Camby, sounded the warning.
"You're not getting enough fish," he exclaimed on one of his periodical visits to Legonia. "I'm building up a demand for your product which is fast becoming national. The way things are going now, you will not be able to supply it. Then I'll be out of pocket for my advertising. I'm cutting into your surplus every day. In two weeks you'll be down to bed-rock. What are you going to do about it?"
As Gregory considered the question, Mr. Dupont answered for him: "You've got to have more boats. If you haven't the money to tie up in them right now, I'll back you and take a mortgage on your plant. I'm willing to stick by you and back you to the limit. But you've got to furnish the goods."
Gregory made up his mind quickly. Dupont was right. Things were coming his way with a rush. What was the use of losing all he had gained by pursuing a policy of playing safe and "shooting nickels"? Men who made fortunes on the sea had to take chances. It grayed their hair and seamed their faces with premature lines. But that was part of the game,—the toll which the sea demanded.
"All right," he said. "Let's get down to business.I'll go back to the city with you and we'll fix things up. I know of some boats I can lease while Barrows is building the others. Let's go."
From the arrival of the new craft which went to make up the greater cannery fleet, misfortune stalked grimly in its wake. Fishing was universally poor. The boats were forced to cruise wide areas in order to supply fish enough for the cannery and Service Market. Areas which placed them beyond reach of the radio and gave Mascola his chance. The Italian struck without warning. Angered by the loss of his prestige, strengthened by his augmented fleet, he began to hector the extreme outposts beyond reach of the wireless.
Then ensued a long period of stormy weather. Owing to new and inexperienced crews and the increasing interference of Mascola's men, a number of Gregory's vessels were wrecked on the island shores and salvaged with great difficulty and expense. With the extended radius of his operations, overhead expenses mountedperceptibly, cutting down profits and adding to the multiplying worries of the young cannery-owner in countless ways.
At the close of one particularly trying day he sat alone in the cannery office and stared moodily at a wireless despatch which lay on the desk before him. It came from Diablo and reported the arrival of a portion of his fleet off the Hell-Hole.
The message was phrased in the most optimistic terms. Fish appeared to be plentiful. The weatherwas fine, the sea smooth. There was no sign of interference from any quarter.
Yet the worried lines which creased Gregory's forehead deepened. It had been that way often of late at devil island. No matter how clear the sky appeared, the shadow of El Diablo bulked dark and sinister across the sunlit horizon. Something would happen out there to-night. He felt sure of it. He should have gone with the fleet. But how could he? He was far down the coast with the new boats when they left.
Diablo, he realized sharply, was getting on his nerves. Were the obstacles which he had encountered about the island due to something more than a mere defense of good fishing grounds? It was not the first time he had asked himself the question. There was something wrong at El Diablo. He could not shake off the feeling. As he sat down to wait for the evil tidings he felt sure would come, he took up an unopened letter from Hawkins which had been on his desk two days. A part of the letter caused him to read it the second time.