TANGLED THREADS
The death of his father hurled Kenneth Gregory into a new world--a world
of unfamiliar faces, of strange standards of value, of vastly different
problems--the world of business.
Kenneth Gregory had taken this world as he found it. There had been no
time to moralize upon the situation into which the spinning of the wheel
had plunged him. There was work to do.
Securing his discharge from the army he had turned to the task of
settling up his father's estate. The fact that he was the sole heir and
legal executor simplified matters. But there were complications. These
he had unraveled with the aid of Farnsworth, the attorney for the
estate. Then he had come to Legonia and found plenty to do.
Blair, the former manager of the Legonia Fish Cannery, had suffered an
attack of pneumonia and was ill at a neighboring sanitarium. From him he
could therefore learn nothing. The books of the company told him but
little more. Now he was going over the private papers in his father's
office.
"Are you the boss?"
Kenneth Gregory turned from his perusal of a file of letters and faced a
young man standing in the doorway. Gregory nodded.
"I'm the owner," he replied pleasantly, noting the well-worn,
much-patched service uniform of the stranger. "And for the time being,
boss. My manager is sick. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes. You can give me a job."
Gregory smiled at the frankness of the answer.
"I might at that," he said. "Can you speak Russian or Italian?"
The ex-soldier shook his head as Gregory went on:
"What I need more than anything else just now is an interpreter. I have
a lot of foreigners working outside cleaning up. I've been having to
make signs to them all morning."
The soldier's brow wrinkled.
"That's what they told me of this place in Centerville," he said. "They
said I was only wasting shoe-leather to come down here. That it was no
place for an American."
"Maybe they're right," Gregory cut in. Then he added: "However, we may
be able to change things. What can you do?"
The youth's face assumed a more cheerful expression. "I'm a mechanic by
trade," he answered. "I'll do anything right now."
"Know anything about marine motors?"
"Two or four cycle?"
Gregory pondered. 'Twas best to be on the safe side. "Both," he
answered.
The soldier shook his head. "You'll have to count me out on the two
cycles," he said. "Those little peanut-roasters and coffee-grinders are
new to me. Never had any experience with anything much but Unions and
Standards. That's what most of the fishermen have in their boats."
Gregory's face cleared.
"I may be able to take you on. I have a lot of motors which will need
looking after before long. In the meantime if you want to go to work
cleaning up the house, you can start any time you're ready. What do you
say?"
"I'll say you've hired a man. My name's Barnes."
Gregory extended his hand. "And mine is Gregory. When do you want to go
to work?"
"Right away."
Together the two men went out into the fish-laden atmosphere of the
cannery. Walking down the aisles, flanked on both sides by huge vats and
silent conveyers, they came upon a number of dark-skinned laborers
whiling away the time with a scant pretense of work. Stung into a
semblance of action by the sudden appearance of the boss, the men
abruptly postponed their conversation and tardily plied their scrubbing
brooms, meanwhile eying the newcomer with frank disapproval.
Leaving Barnes with the injunction to keep an eye on the men and, if
possible, induce them to speed up, Gregory returned to his work.
Passing through the outer office where he had met Mr. Blair upon the day
of his arrival from overseas, he entered the little room which Richard
Gregory had used for a private office. Opening a small safe which stood
in a corner, he resumed his examination of his father's papers.
In a vague sort of way he regarded his legacy of the Legonia Fish
Cannery as a trust. In the atmosphere of this room this feeling was
always enhanced, the trust more sacred. Here Richard Gregory had worked,
planned, worried. Every detail of the room spoke eloquently from father
to son. Here was begun an unfinished work. Richard Gregory had believed
in it; had given his life to it.
Farnsworth had said that the business had never paid. That his client
had purchased it directly against his advice and had continued to throw
good money after bad ever since. The lawyer advised selling at the first
good opportunity.
Kenneth Gregory absolutely refused to believe that his father had
failed. The business had not prospered. That was true. But doubtless
there were good and sufficient reasons. He continued his examination of
the contents of the safe, methodically going through the various
compartments and making notes concerning the papers found therein. At
length he came to a memorandum which held his attention. It was the
agreement his father had made with Lang to purchase ten fully-equipped
fishing-boats for the fisherman.
Gregory studied the penciled notes. His father had reposed untold
confidence in Lang's integrity. So much was shown by the loose
phraseology of the document and the extreme latitude given the fisherman
in compliance with its terms. That this confidence had evidently not
been misplaced, was evidenced by the promptness with which Lang met the
payments as they fell due.
Farnsworth, Gregory remembered, had regarded the chattel mortgage on
Lang's boats and equipment as a most doubtful asset. If Lang had left a
son the old lawyer had maintained, who would be competent to go on with
his father's work, the situation would have appeared in a more favorable
light.
But Lang had left no son. Only a daughter. And, to quote the reputable
Farnsworth, what chance would any man stand of getting anything out of a
woman on a loosely drawn contract like that? Figure it profit and loss,
my boy, he had concluded bruskly.
Like Farnsworth, Gregory too wished that Lang had left a son. It would
be easier dealing with a man, competent or incompetent, than a woman.
Well, he would say nothing to the girl for the time being at least. She
had had enough to bear in the loss of her father. That much he could
swear to. When she had defaulted the next payment he would make her a
proposition to buy her boats. Fishing was no business for a girl anyway.
He glanced at the schedule of dates arranged by Lang and his father for
making the payments and turned to the calendar. One of them was already
past due. Five hundred dollars should have been paid the week before.
So intent was Gregory upon his study of the contract that he failed to
hear the opening of the outer office door. His first intimation of the
presence of a visitor came with a sharp knock upon his half-open door.
"Come in," he called.
A wind-bronzed fisherman stood upon the threshold, dangling a red cap in
his hand. He bowed gracefully and smiled.
"You are Mr. Gregory?"
Gregory nodded, trying to remember where he had seen the man before.
Suddenly he remembered. It was on the day his father's body had been
brought in. Near the alien wharf a man had jostled against him. A man
with a bright red cap, smoking a cigarette.
"I am Mascola."
The visitor spoke the words slowly as if anxious that none of the
importance of the introduction might be lost or passed over lightly.
Gregory looked Mascola over carefully. The man's carelessness and
seeming irreverence on that never-to-be-forgotten day might not have
been intentional. He must not allow his prejudice to interfere with his
judgment. That was not business. He resolved to hear what the man had to
say.
"What do you want?" he asked bluntly.
Mascola walked unbidden to a chair and seated himself before replying:
"You will want fish before long, Mr. Gregory. I would like to contract
for my men to get them for you."
Gregory was nettled by Mascola's calm assurance. He had a mind to send
him packing. Blair, he remembered, had evidently had but little use for
the Italian. But Blair too might have been prejudiced. It was business
perhaps to hear the man's proposal.
"What is your proposition?" he asked, hoping Mascola would be brief.
In this he was not disappointed. Mascola plunged his hand into the
pocket of his vest and drew forth a paper which he placed in Gregory's
hand.
Gregory ran his eye hastily over the typewritten sheet which contained
the memorandum of four numbered clauses. They were briefly worded and to
the point:
1. The fishermen to furnish albacore, tuna and sardines
at the same price paid by the Golden Rule Cannery.
2. The cannery to assume complete liability for all
boats and equipment used by the fishermen in providing
fish for it.
3. The cannery to agree to pay all fines, state and
federal, for any violation of fishing or navigation
laws.
4. The cannery to agree, under bonds, to hire no men who
are not members of the fishermen's union.
Gregory looked up to meet Mascola's dark eyes regarding him intently.
"That is all," said the Italian boss.
"It's enough," commented Gregory tersely, striving to hold his temper in
check at the impudence of Mascola's proposal. Any one of the four
clauses he realized would be amply sufficient to throw him into
bankruptcy. The first would place him in the hands of his local
competitor, a Slavonian. The last would deliver all that was left to the
fisherman's union, also foreigners. By the second clause his property
would be placed in jeopardy to protect the carelessness or incompetence
of others, aliens all. And the third, Gregory did not clearly
understand. To satisfy his curiosity he asked:
"What do you mean by the cannery agreeing to pay the fines?"
Mascola smiled pityingly, exposing a fine set of even teeth.
"You are a stranger here. I forgot. So you do not know that it is
necessary for fishermen to break the law sometimes to get fish. The
canneries must have them. They ask no questions. If we can get them
without breaking the laws it is so much the better. But sometimes when
you have steam up you want fish very bad. Then you say, Mascola, I must
have fish. Well, I get them for you. There are always fish to be caught
in some way or other. They are worth a good deal to you at such a time.
Why should you not pay for the extra risk we run in getting them?"
It was Gregory's turn to smile.
"Rather ingenious," he commented. "Do you find it necessary to go to
such extremes often?"
Mascola sensed the sarcasm. A faint flush crept to his dark cheeks. He
began to suspect that the young man was not taking either him or his
proposition seriously. Perhaps he had said too much. He answered the
question with one word.
"No."
Gregory studied Mascola's face and his smile faded. His irritation at
the Italian's entrance had at first given place to amusement at the
absurdity of the man's proposal. Now came again the feeling of dislike
which had assailed him on the occasion of his first meeting with
Mascola.
"Mascola," he said, "I'll keep your proposition in mind. That is just
about all I ever will do with it, I guess, though I'll talk it over with
Blair."
The Italian frowned at the mention of Blair. He had supposed Blair to be
gone. Had not Rossi reported the departure of the former manager more
than a month ago? Blair would be a stumbling-block to his scheme. Blair
knew too much. Mascola realized that he had been too confident. He felt,
moreover, that he had made a fool of himself. Had not the young man
smiled? His anger mounted at the recollection. He rose quickly, fighting
it down.
"All right, Mr. Gregory," he said smoothly. "I make my proposition. I
come to you this time. You do not accept. It is all right. Next time you
come to me."
Bowing slightly and smiling to hide his anger, he went out.
Gregory turned again to his work, but found it hard to keep his mind
from the Italian's veiled threat. It angered him. Mascola had appeared
so sure of his ground. His irritation grew as his eye fell again on the
Lang contract. If he only had some one with whom he could talk. Some one
who knew something about fishing or running a cannery. Some one who
would understand what he was up against. His father evidently had few if
any confidants. If he had only left some written word.
From the cannery came the sound of excited voices, a jargon of
unintelligible words. Gregory sprang to his feet and hurried out. He met
Mascola coming to meet him. Behind him trooped the alien laborers.
The Italian stopped abruptly and threw out his arm with a dramatic
gesture. Pointing in the direction of the solitary soldier who stood
staring with open mouth, he said: "My men, they do not work with scabs,
Mr. Gregory. You let that man go, or they quit."
"Let them quit."
Gregory spoke quickly and tried to smile. Losing his temper would not
help matters. That wasn't business.
Mascola spoke rapidly to the men in their own tongue, waving his arms
and rolling his eyes. Gregory noticed that every one seemed to be
getting excited. With scowling faces, the alien laborers grouped
themselves about their leader and glared at the offending soldier and
his boss.
Gregory checked a quick impulse forcibly to show Mascola the door. It
was the right of every man to refuse to work if the job was not to his
liking. There was, however, nothing to get excited over. He turned to
Mascola.
"Tell your men to come into the office and get their money," he said.
His quiet manner disappointed the Italian boss. He had hoped for a
scene. An argument at least. His men expected more of him than this.
Gregory had calmly turned his back upon him and was walking away.
Mascola could stand no more.
"All right, Gregory," he called. "You go ahead and hire a scab crew.
Then you'll find out you're the same damn fool as your father."
Gregory whirled. Mascola's hand leaped to his side, burying itself in
the folds of his shirt. Before he could bring it out, Kenneth Gregory
was upon him.
His fist caught Mascola full on the chin. The Italian's head snapped
backward. His feet shot forward. He clutched at the air for support and
strove to regain his balance. Then he fell to the floor, rolled over
like a cat, and rebounded to his feet, snarling.
Gregory heard a warning cry from Barnes: "Look out! He's got a knife."
Barnes looked vainly about for a weapon as he ran to his employer's
assistance.
The laborers pressed closer, their brown hands fingering their belts,
their faces dark with passion. Hemmed in on every side by the scowling
aliens, Gregory took a step forward and stood waiting.
Mascola advanced warily with peculiar sideling steps. His face was a
mottled gray save in one place where his chin was flecked with blood.
His left arm was extended guard-wise. His right was crooked loosely to
his side, fingers covered. He crouched low and gathered.
Gregory measured the distance which separated him from the advancing
Italian. Faintly to his ears came the sound of creaking boards behind
him. Perhaps Mascola's men were pressing in from the rear. He dared not
look to see. His eyes were held by Mascola's crooked arm. That was what
he must grab and break.
Mascola's dark eyes, shining with anger, flashed over Gregory's shoulder
to the door beyond. Then they widened with surprise. He stopped
suddenly. His extended arm drooped. For an instant he stood hesitating,
wavering. He took a step backward. His crooked arm unbent, dropped
slowly to his side.
His eyes were held by the open door.