A NEW WORLD
Next morning Johnny and Blackie Dawson sat on the deck of the _Stormy
Petrel_. A wild nor’wester was whipping up the ocean spray. Even on the
river well back from the narrow bay, little whitecaps came racing in.
“No day for going out!” Blackie grumbled. “Pile up on the rocks, that’s
what we’d do.”
“Yes,” Johnny agreed. Fact is, he at that moment was not thinking of the
sea, but of the quiet Matanuska valley, of the snug home he and his
people had built there. He wondered in a vague sort of way how far this,
his latest venture, would lead him from that home. He was thinking not so
much for himself as for his cousin Lawrence.
Strange as it might seem, the welcome given them by the people of the
cannery had not come up to their expectations. Men had stared at them,
had mumbled something under their breath, then gone about their work.
Work there was to be done, too. There was a pleasant hum of expectancy
about the place. Every motor, machine and conveyor in the place was being
given the once-over. Power-boat motors thundered as they went through
their testing. Johnny felt a desire to become a part of it all. And yet—
“Fool sort of thing this rushing off after adventure,” he told himself.
But, had love of adventure alone brought them this far, hundreds of miles
from his quiet valley? Love of home was one thing, love of one’s country
another. You didn’t—
His thoughts broke off short. There had come the sound of a loud voice.
The _Stormy Petrel_ was anchored on a narrow dock that ran along the side
of a long, low building, the cannery. A window was open. The speaker was
near. Johnny caught every word. As he listened his ears burned. But what
could he do? He was on his own boat. People who do not mean to be heard
too far must speak softly.
Perhaps the man meant to be heard. There was more than a suggestion of
anger and threat in his voice as he said, “Fine fix we’re in! Huh! Here
we are part of the biggest industry in Alaska. Fifteen million dollars a
year. The Orientals start cuttin’ in on us. We call for help, for
protection. And what do we get? A lousy tub no bigger than a gill-net
boat. And how’s she manned, I ask you?”
A second voice rumbled words that could not be understood.
“She’s manned by a crippled young skipper,” the first speaker growled.
“An old Scotch engineer and two kids. Protection! Bah!” There came a
grunt of disgust. “We’ll have to take things into our own hands.”
At that a door slammed and they heard no more.
“Well?” Blackie tried to scare up a grin. It was not a huge success.
“Kids,” he said.
“We’re not quite that,” Johnny said quietly. “We _are_ pinch hitters.”
“Sure you are,” Blackie agreed. “But I wouldn’t trade you for half the
so-called men in the regular service.
“Say, Johnny!” His voice dropped. “Know who that was talking?”
“No-o.”
“It was Red McGee. He is the union agent that looks after the interests
of these men working in the canneries. They say he’s a good man and a
fighter, but narrow. A—a fighter. Hm’m—” Blackie seemed to play with the
words.
“Johnny,” his whisper sounded like an exploding steam valve. “You _like_
to box, don’t you?”
“Nothing I like better,” Johnny grinned. “Started when I was six and
never stopped.”
“Red McGee’s a boxer,” Blackie said. “Off times like this I’m told these
men up here go in for boxing bouts. Nothing savage, you understand, just
a few friendly rounds. And Red’s never been beaten by any of them.”
“And I suppose you expect me to trim him, at least to try it?” Johnny’s
face was a study.
“No-o, not just that, only a few friendly rounds. I’d like you to
represent the _Stormy Petrel_.”
“I think I get you,” Johnny’s lips moved in a quiet smile. “You want this
crowd to know that I’m not a child.”
“Johnny,” Blackie’s tone was almost solemn, “it’s important. Mighty
important! If this fishing mob gets started and if they find a ship out
there in Bristol Bay catching fish contrary to law, there’s going to be
trouble. More trouble than all our diplomats can clear up in a year.
“There’s no getting ’round it, this business has been slighted. But this
much stands out like your nose—we’ve got to do what we can. And we can’t
do much if these Alaskans sneer at us.
“So-o, son,” he drawled, “if they give you a chance tonight you step in.
And if a chance doesn’t open up, I’ll open one.
“Come on,” he sprang to his feet. “It’s time for chow.”
Passionately fond of boxing as Johnny surely was, he found himself
dreading the encounter Blackie had proposed for that night. Why? He could
not have told.
A strange audience awaited him in the long, low-ceilinged room where, on
working days cases of salmon were stored for shipping. Seated on empty
packing boxes, the men formed a hollow circle. This circle was to be the
ring for the evening’s entertainment.
“They’re all here,” Blackie grinned. “A dozen nationalities: Italians,
Finlanders, Swedes, down-east Yankees, an Eskimo or two and what have
you.
“One thing they’ve got in common,” his voice rang true, “they’re all
Alaskans at heart. Hard fighters, straight shooters, they look you square
in the eye and treat you fair. But when anyone tries any dirty,
underhanded work, you’ll see sparks fly.”
“Well,” Johnny smiled. “Whatever else happens, there will be no crooked
work tonight. I don’t fight that way.”
“Don’t I know it?” Blackie agreed.
“Well, now, here we are,” he chuckled a moment later. “Reserved seats.
Box seats, mind you. Who could ask for more?”
As Johnny sat, quite silent in his place, watching one short three-round
match after another being fought in a good-natured rough-and-tumble
fashion between boatmen, cannery workers, carpenters, engineer and
blacksmith, he became more and more conscious of one fact—the crowd was
holding back its enthusiasm.
“It’s like the preliminary bouts in Madison Square Gardens,” he said to
Blackie at last. “They seem to be waiting for the one big fight. What’s
coming?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“No-o, I—”
“It’s you and Red McGee. They’re waiting for that.”
“What?” Johnny half rose to his feet.
“Keep your seat.” Blackie pulled him down. “Ever hear of the grapevine
telegraph?”
“Yes, in—in a sort of way.”
“It’s the mysterious manner in which news travels up here. These fellows
know about you. The minute I gave them your name they busted out, ‘The
kid that packs a wallop?’”
“And you—”
“I said, ‘Sure! None other. But does Red McGee know it?’
“They said, ‘Guess he doesn’t. He’s been in Seattle, just come up.’
“Then I said, ‘Mum’s the word. We’ll just ask him to give Johnny a few
pointers in boxing.’”
“And they agreed?” Johnny seemed ready to bolt from the room.
“Sure. Why not?” Blackie grinned. “It’s the grandest way to get in with
all of ’em. They like a good joke. So does Red McGee.”
“Even if it’s on him?”
“Even if it’s on him. Absolutely.”
“Then he’s a real sport,” Johnny settled back in his place. “It will be a
real joy to box him a few rounds.”
“Okie doke,” Blackie seemed relieved. “But, Johnny,” he added, “pull your
punches. Murder isn’t legal in Alaska, not south of the Arctic Circle.”
“I only hope Red McGee remembers that,” was Johnny’s solemn reply.