THE WORK OF THEIR FATHERS
"Drop it, Mascola."
The sharp command drew the eyes of the laborers to the door and they
stopped fingering their knives. Shuffling closer together they looked to
their leader for guidance.
Mascola's eyes darted about the floor, coming to rest upon a big vat
only a few feet away. For an instant he hesitated. A faint metallic
click from the doorway caused him to make up his mind. His body
straightened as his hands traveled upward to the level of his shoulders.
The palm of his right hand opened and a thin two-edged blade rattled to
the floor.
Gregory took a step forward and shoved the knife away with his foot.
Keeping one eye fixed warily upon Mascola, he shot a glance over his
shoulder to determine the author of the interruption.
He turned to see a trim little figure in loosely-fitting outing clothes
striding across the floor. Facing the light which streamed in from the
open door, he could not distinguish the newcomer's face. He only noted
the ease of the stranger's movements, the poise of the uptilted head and
the nervous manner with which the Italians fell away before the
advancing figure.
"What's the trouble?"
Gregory stared. It was a girl. She had turned into the light and was
facing him. As he formed an answer to her question he saw that her
sun-bronzed cheeks were flushed with red and her clear brown eyes were
looking into his inquiringly. In her hand she held an automatic
revolver.
Gregory strove to make his explanation brief.
"These men refused to work. I told them to go. Mascola and I had some
trouble. He drew his knife. Then you came."
The girl nodded, dislodging a lock of red-gold hair from under her
knitted cap. Turning quickly to Mascola, she commanded: "Get out."
Mascola made no sign that he intended to comply with the order. With
folded arms he looked insolently at the speaker.
"When my men are paid, I will go. But first, I must have my knife."
His eyes roved longingly in the direction of the dagger.
The girl took a quick step backward and covered Mascola's waist-line
with the automatic.
"You'll go now," she said. Turning to Gregory she added: "Tell him
you'll pay him down-town."
Gregory picked up the Italian's knife before replying:
"I'll be at the bank at two," he said, making no move to comply with
Mascola's request for his weapon.
Mascola clenched his hands. His face grew red with passion. For an
instant he glared from Gregory to the girl. Then the color faded.
Turning to his men he spoke rapidly to them in their own tongue. The
workmen retired sullenly and picking up their coats followed their
leader to the door. Mascola hesitated for a moment on the threshold.
Then, checking the angry threat which rose to his lips, he went out.
Gregory watched him go in silence. Then he turned to the girl.
"My name is Gregory," he said. "You happened along just about right for
me."
The tense lines about the girl's mouth disappeared slowly as she passed
a small brown hand across her forehead and replaced a truant lock.
"I am Dickie Lang," she announced simply. Shoving the automatic into her
coat pocket, she extended her hand. "I knew your father well. I am glad
to meet you."
The frankness of the words was strengthened by the look of sincerity in
the brown eyes as she stood calmly looking him over.
Gregory curbed his surprise with an effort which left him staring at the
girl in awkward silence. When he had thought of Lang's daughter at all,
it had been only in the most abstract way. He had regarded her only a
possible and very probable source of trouble, scarcely as a flesh and
blood woman at all. Never a girl like this.
He wakened to the fact that he was a very stupid host. Barnes, after
staring at Dickie Lang for a moment, had retired to his work, leaving
Gregory alone with his guest in the middle of the receiving floor.
"Won't you come into the office?"
The words came hesitatingly. He nodded in the direction of the
screen-door.
"Yes. I would like to talk with you."
Again the direct straightforward manner of speaking. Dickie Lang started
at once for the office, walking across the floor with quick impatient
steps. Gregory held the door open and as the girl brushed by him, he saw
her flash a glance to the door of his father's office beyond. He led the
way in silence to the room where he had been working and waited for his
visitor to be seated.
Dickie Lang's eyes roved swiftly about the room, taking in the familiar
details. Nothing had been changed. She could see her father leaning
against the desk, his great shoulders hunched forward, his big hands
nervously toying with the glass paper-weight, his blue eyes fixed upon
the silent figure in the swivel-chair. Again she could hear the voice of
Richard Gregory:
"All right, Bill. I'll see you through. Go ahead and get the boats."
Dickie realized with a start that the square-jawed, black-eyed young man
before her was Richard Gregory's son. The past faded away. With simple
directness she plunged into the object of her visit.
"I've brought the money due on the boats. Got into a squabble with the
markets and they tied me up for a few days. Otherwise I would have been
here sooner."
Thrusting her hand into her pocket, she drew out a roll of bills and
began to count them.
Gregory watched her as she thumbed the bank-notes. The dark brown
corduroy was simply, if mannishly cut, and in a way it became her. Her
small feet and rounded ankles would have appeared to better advantage in
high-heeled shoes and silk stockings than those blunt-nosed boots and
canvas leggings. And why in the name of common sense would any woman
with hair like that want to keep it tucked away under a close-fitting
cap? She would have been beautiful in---- He roused himself from his
examination of the girl's attire and strove to fix his mind on the
object of her visit. He reached for the receipt-book as she finished
counting the money.
"Tenth payment," she exclaimed. "Five hundred. Makes twelve thousand
even. That right?"
Gregory ran over the money, consulting his notebook to verify the
figures.
"Right," he answered.
While he wrote the receipt she studied him. So this was the man whom
Richard Gregory had designated as a red-blooded American. The father's
praise of his absent son, she was forced to admit, had slightly
prejudiced her against the young man. No single individual could possess
all the sterling traits of character attributed to him by the late
cannery owner. That was impossible. He would fall down somewhere.
Gregory handed the girl her receipt.
"And now," he began, somewhat uncertain as to just how to proceed, "what
do you intend to do about the boats?"
Dickie Lang paused in the act of folding the paper and looked up
quickly. For some reason she felt herself irritated by the question. Her
irritation crept into her voice as she answered:
"I'm going to run them, of course."
Gregory straightened in his chair and faced about.
"You're going to run them?" he repeated. "You don't mean yourself?"
"Sure. What else would I do with them?" she asked coldly.
The man was caught for the moment unawares by the suddenness of the
question.
"I thought perhaps you would want to sell them," he answered bluntly.
"Why?" Her voice had a belligerent ring and he noticed that her eyes
were snapping. As he did not immediately reply, she flashed: "I know
why. It's because I'm a woman. You think I can't make good. Isn't that
it?"
Gregory felt his cheeks burn at the feeling she threw into her words.
He hadn't meant to make it quite so plain but if she insisted on the
truth, why not? Perhaps it was the best way.
"You've guessed it," he answered slowly. "You may call it prejudice if
you like, but that is just the way I feel."
Tapping the floor angrily with her foot, she interrupted:
"It's worse than prejudice. It's just plain damn-foolishness. Honestly,
after all I've heard of you, I gave you credit for having more sense.
Your father wouldn't have said that. He believed there wasn't a thing in
the world a man or woman couldn't do, if they tried hard enough. And he
gave them the chance to make good. But I'll tell you right now, you've
got a lot to learn before you'll be able to wear his hat."
Gregory sank deeper into his chair as Dickie Lang proceeded with his
arraignment. Nothing could be said until she was through. His silence
gave the girl a free rein to express her feelings.
"You think I don't know my game because I'm a woman. Why, I've been on
the sea since I was a kid. If my father hadn't made me go to school, I
would have lived with him on the water. And don't you suppose in fishing
with a man like Bill Lang, a person learns something? Doesn't that more
than make up for the handicap of being a woman?"
The young man waited for a chance to put in a word but none came.
Becoming angrier each minute, she hurried on:
"There isn't a man in Legonia but you who would have said that. Not even
Mascola. He hates me only because I do know my business. And you, a
stranger, come down here and tell me----"
"I didn't say you didn't know your business," Gregory interjected as she
drew a long breath.
"No, but you thought it just the same. And what right have you to think
things like that? What do you know about things here? You never saw the
place until just a few weeks ago. And you've been gone ever since. I'll
bet you were never in a fish cannery before in your life. I'll bet right
now you don't know what you're going to do next. You're waiting for
Blair to get well and tell you. Suppose he doesn't. He's a mighty sick
man and it's a cinch if he does come back it won't be for a long time.
What are you going to do in the meantime besides tell me I don't----"
Gregory held up his hand to check a further outburst.
"Listen," he said. "There is no use going on like this. Our fathers were
the best of friends. Why can't we be the same? I'm willing to admit
there is a lot of truth in what you say about my not knowing just what
I'm going to do right now. I didn't select the position I'm in, but I'm
going to make the best of things as they are and finish up the work
which was begun by my father. And I want to say right now that I'm going
to finish it.
"In a way," he went on slowly, "our positions are somewhat similar. We
each have a job to finish. I didn't think yours meant as much to you as
mine does to me, though of course I might have, if I hadn't been
thinking so much of myself. Our fathers worked together and got along
fine. It may be that we can do the same thing."
The fire died slowly from the girl's eyes. In its place there came an
expression, more wistful perhaps than anything else. When she spoke
again the irritation was gone from her voice.
"No," she answered. "There isn't any reason why we can't be friends. And
there are a lot of reasons why we should be. I'm willing to do my part
and I'll show you, Mr. Gregory, that I do know my business. It always
makes me mad when any one thinks I don't know the sea. When dad wanted
to tease me he always called me a 'land-lubber.' And even when a kid I
would always fight at that."
She paused a moment. Then went on:
"I'd like to do what I can for you for two reasons. Your father did a
lot for mine. He was one of my few friends. I'd like to give his son a
hand if it would help. In the second place, it is to my interest in a
business way to see your cannery succeed. It is a market for my fish. I
won't sell to the Golden Rule and the dealers won't pay the express on
canning fish. The sooner you start up the better it will be for me. I
can tell you right now you have a lot to do."
Again she paused and looked down at her feet. When she spoke again it
was with some hesitation.
"If I were you I'd get hold of Jack McCoy. He can do more for you than
any one else. I wouldn't count too much on Blair. I heard from him this
morning and they didn't hold out much hope. He's completely run down and
that's the kind pneumonia hits hard."
Gregory nodded.
"I know," he said. Then he asked: "McCoy was the foreman, wasn't he?"
"Yes. He's still in town. Blair gave him a letter of recommendation but
Jack won't look for another job until he knows what Blair is going to
do. He says Blair taught him all he knows and he's going to stick to him
because he always treated him white."
Gregory wrote McCoy's address which the girl supplied and she continued:
"One of the first things to be done, of course, will be to go all over
the machinery. That won't take long. Then the supplies and material will
have to be checked over and the new stuff ordered. That will take a week
for two men."
Gregory looked at the girl with more respect. Apparently she knew
something of his business as well as her own. Doubtless her association
with her father had brought her into close touch with the cannery. As
she went on, Dickie Lang divulged the source of her information.
"Jack and I have talked you over a lot," she said soberly. "We are both
anxious to see you get going."
While she talked on concerning the re-opening of the cannery, Gregory
wondered to what extent her opinion of McCoy's ability was based by
personal prejudice. Of course it was nothing to him what Dickie Lang
thought of McCoy or of himself either, for that matter. He decided to
look McCoy up at once.
"Then you have to get your labor," she went on. "And that isn't as easy,
I have found, as it seems. You see Mascola has the bulge on the labor
situation around here. He has the riff-raff of the world on his
pay-roll. They speak in a dozen different languages. Everything
almost--but English. They are practically all aliens and there is
nothing they won't do to keep a decent man out. Blair had hard work to
get a crew, I know, and harder work to keep it. He was always hiring and
firing. Things would go all right for a while. Then there would come a
row with Mascola's outfit and a lot of the boys would get disgusted and
leave."
Gregory interrupted:
"I understand from my father's attorney, that one of the biggest things
he had to contend with was the matter of getting fish."
"I'm coming to that in a minute. Let's finish up the labor question
while we're on it. You've got to get a certain number of skilled men who
can handle the machines. With a few others who have worked in a fish
cannery you can go ahead, for the biggest percentage of your labor is
unskilled anyway and has to be broken in. Men like that are the hardest
to get," she concluded, "they are mostly tramps. Here to-day and gone
to-morrow. You can't depend on them. If you can get a bunch to stick,
you're mighty lucky."
She paused and moved her chair nearer. Then she broached the important
subject.
"About the fish, you can do one of three things. Or rather two things,"
she corrected, "for I hardly think you'll tie up with Mascola. You can
fix up your own boats, try to man them and get your own fish. You have
twenty-five boats. That's not enough even if they were all in good
shape, which they're not."
"What do you mean by trying to man my boats?"
The girl smiled.
"Just what I say," she answered. "Fishermen are scarce. My father was in
business here for twenty years and most of the time he was running
short-handed. You can get plenty of men to ride on your boats but they
are not fishermen."
Noting the direction in which the conversation was drifting, Gregory
resolved to hasten the climax.
"Do you think you could furnish me with enough fish?" he asked bluntly.
"I don't think anything about it. I know I could."
"How do you know it?"
She hesitated as she cast about in her active brain for a tangible
argument to convince the obstinate, square-jawed man before her. Of
course she could get him the fish. But how could she make him believe
it?
"My fishermen know the coast for one thing," she began. "That's a whole
lot around here. It's a treacherous shore-line and a man who doesn't
know it can lose a boat mighty easy. Then, I have ten new boats, just
the kind you have to have for albacore and tuna. As a general rule
you've got to go way out to sea to get them. Sometimes as far as Diablo.
And that means trouble. If you've ever been out to that God-forsaken
island you'll understand that it takes real men and boats. I have both."
Gregory said nothing, but waited for the girl to finish:
"I know my game," she concluded, with no spirit of bravado, but merely
as if it was only a plain statement of fact. "My men are used to holding
their own against Mascola. And I can tell you that is worth a lot."
Gregory nodded. Then he said quietly:
"Your father was never able to supply mine with enough fish to keep this
cannery going. Isn't that right?"
Dickie Lang was forced to admit the truth of the statement. Then she
qualified: "He hadn't had the big boats but a few months and they had a
run of bad luck from the start."
Gregory considered her words carefully.
"Would you be willing to enter into a contract with me to keep the
cannery supplied with fish?" he asked, watching her closely. For the
first time he saw her show signs of receding from her original position.
Dickie Lang hesitated. Her fear of legal entanglements was hereditary.
Bill Lang had settled his differences out of court and had warned his
daughter on more than one occasion of the dangers which lurked in a
contract. She shook her head. What did she know of this man, save the
fact that he bore his father's name?
"No," she answered, feeling, however, that she had weakened her previous
statement by refusing to make it legally binding.
"Why not?"
The girl realized that their positions were becoming reversed. It was
she now who was on the defensive.
"Because," she answered slowly, "I wouldn't." Ashamed that she had given
the proverbial reason for feminine change of mind, she added quickly:
"You see you may be all right. And then again you may not. I'd like a
chance to size you up first."
Gregory smiled. "That was what I thought about you at the beginning of
our talk," he said. His face became instantly serious. "We'll just have
to size each other up before we can actually get down to cases. Isn't
that the truth?"
She nodded. "Yes. You think I can't make good."
"And you just don't know about me," Gregory finished for her. Then he
added: "How are we going to find out about each other?"
Dickie regarded him gravely.
"The ocean is the best test for a man or a woman that I know. It doesn't
play any favorites. When a girl goes out there all 'dolled-up' it washes
off the paint and powder and shows her up for just what she is. And it
shows a man up too. It's always waiting for him to make some mistake.
When he does, he has to think and act at the same time. He can't hedge
or make excuses. He's got to pay or play. A quitter has no chance with
the sea."
Observing him closely, she concluded: "I could tell more about you on
the sea in a minute than I could find out in here in a month."
"And I could find out whether or not I thought you knew your business."
They laughed together.
"I'll be ready any time."
Dickie was on her feet at his words.
"To-morrow morning then, at four o'clock. Meet me at our dock and I'll
show you I know what I'm talking about."
Gregory promised and the girl hurried out.
For some time the young cannery owner scratched busily at the pad of
paper before him, jotting down the substance of his interview with
Dickie Lang. Passing through the cannery he came upon the solitary
remnant of his floor force whom he had forgotten for the time being.
"I'm going down-town for a few minutes, Barnes. If anybody asks for me,
tell them I'll be back in half an hour."
The ex-soldier's eyes brightened at the sight of his employer.
"Say, Mr. Gregory, you took me on quick and stayed by me, and I don't
want you to think I don't appreciate it, for I do. Now that you've
canned the other gang, I wonder if there'd be any chance for a couple of
my pals. We've been drifting around together and their shoes is worn out
same as mine."
"What can they do?"
"One of them's a chauffeur. He ain't afraid of nothin'. And he can drive
anything on wheels. The other one's a steam-fitter by trade, but he'll
be glad to nurse a broom or anything else right now."
Gregory was on the point of telling Barnes to wait until he had
conferred with McCoy when he noticed the peculiar manner with which his
employee held his broom.
"What's the matter with your arm?" he asked quietly.
Barnes tapped the member in question and regarded him somewhat
doubtfully.
"Nothin'," he said.
Gregory stepped nearer and examined the shoulder carefully.
"Why didn't you tell me your arm had been hurt?" he asked in a low
voice.
Barnes met his eyes squarely.
"Because I was afraid it would queer me for a job," he said. "You see,
Gregory, when a man hires a fellow he figures he's all there. He kind of
rents him all over and when he's shy on somethin', he kind of figures
the fellow's holding back on him. I didn't want to slip anything over on
you. Because you were white to me from the start. But I was afraid when
you saw my pin was faked you might change your mind."
Gregory's eyes were fixed intently on the soldier as he went on:
"You see I got my insurance. But that ain't enough. My old man died
while I was away. And my mother ain't any too well. So I just lets her
have the money. But that ain't all there is to it. You see when a
fellow's worked and hit the ball, he don't want to lay round and loaf."
Still Gregory said nothing, and Barnes, misconstruing his silence,
continued:
"It's wonderful what a fellow can do with what the doctors leave him
when they get through cuttin'. You ought to go up to Port Angeles and
see what the Bureau's teaching the poor blind devils. It kind of seems
like their eyes goes into their arms and legs, for they can do more with
them now than they ever thought of doing before they lost their lamps."
He extended his good arm and flexed the muscles until they stood out
like lumps of whip-cord. "Look at that," he exclaimed. "They's twice the
pep in that one since they hacked up the other one. You don't need to be
afraid of me not doing a day's work. I----"
"Are there many of the boys out of work?" Gregory found his voice at
last.
Barnes nodded.
"Scads of 'em. Some of them went back to their old jobs. Some of them
found 'em gone and they was others that couldn't cut it like they used
to. The government's tryin' to land 'em all jobs. But it's slow."
Gregory turned slowly about and retraced his steps in the direction of
the office. Then he remembered Barnes's request.
"You can tell your friends to come along," he said.
Barnes ran after him.
"Say," he exclaimed, "I forgot to tell you. One of 'em's leg's a little
stiff and the other one's shy an eye."
Gregory whirled about.
"They've got brains and hearts left, haven't they?" he challenged. "Tell
them to come along."
Walking rapidly to the office he entered and closed the door. When
Barnes came in at quitting time the room was thick with smoke. In the
center of the smoke-screen Gregory sat at a small table, hammering away
at a typewriter. On a near-by chair, the ex-soldier caught a glimpse of
a colored poster, glaringly captioned:
JOBS FOR SOLDIERS
Shutting the door softly behind him he withdrew, smiling to himself.