THE SHADOW
“Fog.” There was more than a suggestion of disgust in Johnny’s tone as he
said this word. It was the next morning. After a good night’s sleep
aboard the _Stormy Petrel_ he felt ready for anything. The moment he
awoke he had listened for the pounding surf.
“Gone!” He had leaped from his bunk. “Storm’s over. Now for a good look
at Bristol Bay and perhaps, just perhaps, some of those Orientals.”
“Here’s hoping,” Lawrence agreed.
Yes, the storm was over, but here instead was a damp, chilling blanket of
dull, gray fog.
“Can’t see a hundred feet,” he grumbled.
“You’ll get used to that, son.” It was Red McGee who spoke. He had been
leaning on the rail talking to Blackie. “‘Men and Fog on the Bering Sea.’
That’s the name of a book. And it’s a good name. There are always men and
nearly always there is fog.
“Fish are coming in,” he added as a cheering note. “Two boats are just in
from a try at the gill-nets. They made a fair catch.”
“But this fog,” Johnny insisted, “gives those Orientals a chance to slip
in close, doesn’t it?”
“It does!” Red agreed. “Blast their hides! That floatin’ factory of
theirs comes in close to the three-mile limit. Then their other boats,
small, fast ones, can come over the line and set nets. You couldn’t see
them in the fog. They’d put ’em up early. Three miles of nets.
“Claim they’re catchin’ crabs. Crabs, me eye!” he exploded. “Crab nets
are set on the bottom. Salmon nets are set close to the top. Drift nets
are what they use. We’ve never found one inside the three-mile line, but
we think they’ve been there all the same.
“If you ever do find one,” he turned to Blackie, “take it up and bring it
in. We’ll can their fish an’ boil their nets.
“Shouldn’t be any three-mile line,” he continued. “All our shore water
belongs to us. So do the fish. It’s food, son! Food for the millions. And
these Orientals would have had fish on their own shores if they hadn’t
exterminated them.”
“We’re going out right now,” said Blackie. “Going to have a look for that
shadow that passes in the fog. We’ve got a nice swivel cannon up there
forward. Don’t know whether you can hit a shadow, but it won’t do any
harm to try.”
“All the same, this _is_ a serious situation,” said Blackie as they
headed out into the fog. “These Alaskans are a strange people. They are
like the men of the old west, the west that’s gone forever; fearless men
with hearts of gold, fighting devils when they know they’ve been wronged.
And this Oriental raiding business is an outrage, providing it’s true.”
“But is it true?” Johnny asked.
“That,” said Blackie, “is what we’re going to find out.
“Johnny,” he said after a moment, “go up forward and remove that box. Let
our little brass messenger swing with the boat.”
A moment later, up forward, a small swivel cannon swung from side to
side. As it did so it seemed to point, first right, then left.
“This way or that?” Johnny thought. “I wonder which it will be.”
Hour after hour the fog hung on. Hour after hour Johnny squinted his eyes
for some moving object in that blanket of gray fog. The cold, damp ocean
air chilled him to the bone. Stamping his feet, he held doggedly to his
post. When his watch was over he went below to soak in the heat of the
stove that George, the colored cook, kept roaring hot. He drank two cups
of scalding black coffee, downed a plate of beans and a whole pan of hot
biscuits, then spread himself out on a cushioned seat to close his eyes
and dream.
In those dreams he saw creeping gray shadows, darting fish and a pair of
laughing eyes. The eyes closed. When they opened the face wore a frown.
“Rusty!” he whispered. “Wonder if she’ll ever forgive me?”
All too soon his turn at the watch came. The days were long, twenty hours
from dark to dawn. By nature a hard driver, inspired by his desire to
help the Alaskans, Blackie steered his small craft endlessly through the
gray murk.
Then—of a sudden Johnny rubbed his eyes—stared away to the right—closed
his eyes—snapped them open again to whisper hoarsely,
“Blackie! The shadow passes.”
“The shadow! Where?”
The boy’s hand pointed.
“As I live!” Blackie muttered.
A short, slim line, little darker than the fog, moved slowly across the
spot where sky and sea should meet.
“Ahoy, there!” Blackie roared. “What boat goes there?”
No answer.
“I’ll show them!” Blackie put out a hand. Three powerful motors roared.
The _Stormy Petrel_ lurched forward, all but throwing Johnny into the
sea.
Sudden as the movement was, it proved too slow. Like a true shadow, the
thing vanished into the murk.
“It—it went down,” Johnny stammered. “Must have been a whale.”
“Or a submarine,” Lawrence suggested.
“It did not go down,” said MacGregor. “It slid away into the fog. And it
was not a whale. I’ve seen plenty of whales. They’re never like that.”
“Wait!” Johnny sprang for the cannon. “I’ll give them a shot just to let
them know we’re after them.”
“No! No! Not that!” MacGregor waved him back. “‘Speak softly and carry a
big stick.’ That was Teddy Roosevelt’s motto. The grandest president that
ever lived. There’s time enough to make a noise after we’ve got ’em under
our thumb.”
“I—I’m sorry,” said Johnny.