JETSAM OF THE SEA
John Blair was worried. Every line of his face, every movement of his
nervous body showed it. He turned quickly to the bare-footed fisherman
who blocked the doorway.
"You combed the beach, you say? How far?"
"San Lucas to Port Angeles."
"No signs of wreckage; nothing?"
The fisherman shook his head.
Blair was silent for a moment. Then he asked: "How far out to sea did
you go?"
"About three miles, 'Dog-face' Jones's workin' out San Anselmo way. Big
Jack left last night for Diablo."
Blair started. "Diablo," he repeated. "They surely wouldn't have gone
out there."
Before the fisherman could reply there came an interruption. The door
opened quickly and a young man strode into the room.
"Mr. Gregory? Is he in?"
Blair looked up quickly at the sound of the voice and ran his eyes over
the clean-cut figure in the serge uniform. The impression, hastily
formed, of having met the man before, was strengthened by the roving
black eyes which were expectantly traveling about the room.
"This is the Legonia Fish Cannery, isn't it?"
Blair nodded. "Yes," he said. "But Mr. Gregory is not here at present."
"When will he be in?"
The words came eagerly with the brusk assurance of an immediate answer.
The crisp insistence had a decidedly familiar sound. Blair regarded the
clean-cut face of the young officer intently as he answered:
"I don't know. Will you call again or leave your name?"
"I am Mr. Gregory's son."
Blair came to meet him with outstretched hands.
"I might have known it," he said. "I am Mr. Blair, your father's
manager. I'm glad to meet you. Your father did not expect you so soon,
did he?"
The young man shook his head and smiled.
"No," he answered. "Dad thinks I'm still on the other side. I wanted to
surprise him. I wrote a letter saying I would be home as soon as
possible. I mailed the letter on the ship which brought me over." A
boyish look crept into his eyes. "Don't let on when dad comes back that
you've seen me, will you, Mr. Blair? I have to go back to camp to-night
and arrange about my discharge. It may be a week before I can be back."
The black eyes grew suddenly wistful.
"Say, Mr. Blair, don't you think there's a chance of my seeing dad
before I leave? I have until five o'clock to get my train."
Blair was unable to meet the steady gaze of his employer's son. Should
he tell the boy of his father's strange absence? Voice his own fears and
suspicions for the safety of Gregory, Sr.? By the time the young man
returned the mystery might be solved. At least they would know
something.
"What is wrong, Mr. Blair?"
The question was volleyed with quiet insistence. It demanded an answer.
The boy would not be put off. He was his father's son. Blair sought to
put the matter in as favorable a light as possible under the
circumstances. In a few words he told of the disappearance of Richard
Gregory.
Kenneth Gregory listened quietly, at times interrupting with rapid-fire
questions.
"When was he last seen?"
"Three days ago."
"You knew nothing of his plans?"
"Nothing definite," Blair evaded. "He might have gone out with the
fishermen scouting for albacore. One of Lang's boats turned up missing
the next morning. Lang himself is missing, too."
"Who is Lang?"
"Your father's fishing captain. He recently bought him a number of new
boats. They might have gone to try one of them out."
"Nothing has been heard of them since?"
"Not yet. You see it has been very foggy lately all along the coast.
That has handicapped our search."
"Where can I get a boat?"
Blair shook his head. Then he came closer and put his hand on Kenneth
Gregory's arm.
"All of the Lang boats are out now, Captain. Everything is being done, I
can assure you. It would be no use."
"Are there no other boats here than Lang's?"
"Only the alien fleet."
The man in uniform whirled about decisively.
"Then I'll get one of them. Will you show me where they are?"
"It would be no use. They wouldn't go. You see----"
"Let's try."
With some reluctance Blair consented.
"We haven't been getting along any too well with Mascola's outfit
lately," he explained as they walked along. "I'll stop at Lang's wharf
first. Maybe some of the boats are back."
Turning on to a small wharf they walked in silence over the loose boards
down the lane of ill-smelling fish-boxes. At the end of the dock a
narrow gangway led downward to a small float which rocked lazily in the
capping swells thrown up by a passing fishing-boat. Close by, another
wharf jutted out into the bay. Upon it were a number of swarthy
fishermen, piling nets. Blair stopped abruptly at the head of the
gangway, his eyes searching the water. The fishing-boat was swinging up
into the tide and edging closer.
"Is that one of the Lang boats?" he heard Gregory ask.
A paroxysm of coughing prevented Blair's immediate reply. The young
officer looked eagerly at the approaching craft, upon the bow of which a
dark-skinned man leaned carelessly against the wire-stays. He noticed
that the man was tall and straight. Upon his head a gaudy red cap rested
with a rakish air. His eyes were upon the Lang dock as he stood with
folded arms and waited for the boat to nose up to the near-by wharf.
Gregory admitted to himself that there was something masterful about the
red-capped stranger, at the same time, repellent. The crowd of aliens
moreover, he noticed, fell away respectfully. The newcomer was evidently
a personage in the community.
Gregory, watching him as he stepped from the launch, instinctively
disliked him.
"That's Mascola."
Blair bit the words savagely.
Gregory surveyed the newcomer with interest.
"He has a boat," he said. "Let's go over and get it."
Blair put out a restraining hand.
"There would be no use," he said. "Mascola wouldn't let us have that
boat to save our lives."
Gregory was already on his way to the Italian dock. Blair started to
overtake him. Then he glanced down the bay and his face brightened.
"Wait," he called. "Here comes one of Lang's boats now. Perhaps they
will know something."
With the approach of the second fishing-boat came a crowd of curious
fishing folk of all nationalities. Men, women and children clustered
about the dock, imbued with a lust for excitement and a morbid desire to
learn the worst from the latest mystery of the sea. All eyes were held
by the fishing-boat as it swung about and drew near the float.
Blair shoved his way through the crowd and led Gregory down the gangway.
Upon the covered hatch of the launch Blair's eye caught sight of two
rolls of canvas, fashioned bundle-like. Nets most likely. He looked
eagerly at the fishermen aboard the incoming craft. Their faces caused
him to look again at the canvas bundles. Then he turned quickly to the
man by his side.
"Why not wait on the wharf until they come up?" he asked in a low voice
in which he strove to conceal his agitation.
Kenneth Gregory shook his head. He too had noticed the bundles on the
hatch.
In silence the launch tied up to the fleet. In silence two bare-footed
fishermen lifted one of the bundles and carrying it carefully between
them, stepped out upon the gently rocking float. The salt-stiffened
canvas unrolled as the men laid their burden down, exposing the body of
a huge fisherman. His face was battered and bruised and Gregory noticed
that his hair was red.
Blair's hand on Gregory's arm tightened.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "It's Lang."
Kenneth Gregory looked down into the face of the big fisherman. Then he
remembered the other bundle. Blair sought to deter him. But he was too
late to check the onward rush of the young man across the float. Already
he was boarding the boat. Blair watched him raise the flap of canvas.
Saw his eyes searching the folds beneath. At length came voices. A man
was speaking.
"Found them off Diablo. Went on the rocks at Hell-Hole in the fog. Boat
was smashed. Bu'sted clean in two."
Gregory scarcely heard them as he knelt on the hatch looking down into
the face of the one he had traveled seven thousand miles to see.
Blair led him away. As the little procession moved silently down the
dock the crowd parted respectfully. Eyes that were hard, softened.
Fishermen took off their hats, holding them awkwardly in their red
hands. Fisherwomen looked down at the rough boards and crossed
themselves devoutly.
The cortège passed on. Turning from the dock they threaded their way
down the narrow street leading to the town. As they neared the alien
docks, the dusky fishermen uncovered and drew together, awed by the
presence of the great shadow.
Gregory's arm brushed against a man leaning carelessly against the
wharf-rail. Raising his eyes from the ground, he beheld the one man of
all the villagers who had remained unmoved, unsoftened by the spectacle.
With his red cap shoved back upon his shining black hair the insolent
stranger stood looking on with folded arms. Gregory noticed that Mascola
had not even taken the trouble to remove the cigarette which hung damply
from his lips.
For an instant the two men looked deep into each other's eyes. Then the
procession passed on.