THE STORMY PETREL’S FIRST PRIZE
As the winter wore on the cold grew more intense. Ice on the streams was
thick. Wild animals appeared to vanish from the scene. Snow covered much
of the river surfaces. All these things served to make “bringing them
home alive” more difficult.
At last the boys gave up this strange occupation and turned to the task
of clearing the ten-acre tract.
“If we can get that tract cleared we’ll plant it in barley, oats and
peas. When these are ground together they make excellent chicken feed.
We’ll go in for poultry. There’s a steady market for dressed chickens and
eggs at Fairbanks,” said Mr. Lawson.
“Yes, if we get that tract cleared,” Lawrence thought, but did not say.
No further suggestion that they go into debt for a tractor was made by
anyone.
The long Arctic evenings were divided between games and dreaming. The
fame of Johnny’s and Joe’s boxing had traveled far. The recreation room
at Palmer was given over to this excellent sport two nights a week.
A boxing club was formed. Even Jack Mayhorn dropped his feud with Johnny
and joined up. Members of a boxing club at Seward accepted an invitation
for a contest. Johnny and Joe won this by a narrow margin.
On the evenings when business or pleasure did not take them to town
Johnny and Lawrence might often be found dreaming by their own
hearth-fire.
“When the land is cleared and plowed, when the grain is sowed and we’ve
earned a breathing spell,” Lawrence would say, “then we’ll hunt up old
Smokey Joe and go out for one of those glacier bears.”
“If we can find Smokey Joe,” Johnny would smilingly agree. “And if they
don’t need us for service in Bristol Bay.”
“Bristol Bay,” Lawrence would reply doubtfully. “Seems as if I’d rather
catch animals alive than go after those Orientals.”
“We’ll take them alive, too,” Johnny chuckled.
Lawrence was not so sure of this. Hour after hour Blackie Dawson, who had
discarded his crutches, entertained them with stories of his adventures
with the Orientals.
“They want everything for themselves. They spoiled their own fishing by
catching the salmon before they were half grown and canning them right on
the ships. Now they want to come over here and do the same, right up
there in Bristol Bay.
“They catch our fish and can ’em, then they pop into Seattle or San
Francisco and say, ‘See all the fine fish we have canned for you. Come
and buy them.’
“Think we’ll do that?” he would storm. “Not on your life! We’ll get ’em.
You’ll see.
“But the Shadow,” his voice would drop, “that shadow that passes in the
fog. How’s a fellow to catch that? Who can tell? But we’ll get it, too,”
he would add, striking the table a lusty blow.
In March he received his appointment as Commander of the _Stormy Petrel_.
“A swell boat.” He was proud of her. “Come on down with me and we’ll turn
her motors over once or twice just to get the rust out of ’em.”
Johnny and Lawrence accepted his invitation. They did far more than turn
the motors over. With Lawrence as engineer and Johnny as first mate, they
cruised for three days along the Alaskan shores.
On the third day, “Just to get in practice,” as Blackie put it, they
hailed a suspicious-looking craft carrying no flag. When the skipper
failed to heed Blackie’s command to head around, they sent a ball from
their shiny brass cannon over her bow and she promptly hove to.
She was found to be carrying contraband drugs. “A fair capture in a fair
chase,” as Blackie expressed it. “A regular feather in our cap.”
“Well,” said Johnny, “how did you like it?”
“Those are glorious motors,” Lawrence enthused. “How I’d love to be their
master. But I hope—” he hesitated. “I rather hope we go after the glacier
bears. That’s the surest way to get a tractor. And a tractor’s what we
need most.”
“Time and fate will decide,” Johnny said soberly.
“Time and Blackie,” Lawrence added with a laugh.
“And Smokey Joe,” Johnny amended.