THE COST OF DEFEAT
There are periods in every one's life when the standard measurements of
time are hopelessly inadequate fittingly to express its passing. Minutes
may creep, or they may fly. An hour stretches into a day or a day
contracts into an hour directly at the will of circumstance.
Kenneth Gregory found this to be true during his period of convalescence
at the Lang cottage. As the days went by he found himself devising a
simpler method for keeping track of time. There were hours when Dickie
Lang was with him, and hours when she was not.
His moments with the girl were always too short. And he was surprised to
find that they never appeared to lengthen. His interest in Dickie, he
told himself, was purely impersonal. She told him of just the things he
desired to hear most about. Kept him in touch with his world. Brought
him news each day from the cannery; the business for which he hungered
and fretted during each minute of his idle hours.
It was Dickie Lang who had told him of the search which had been made
for Boris, a search which had ended in failure. The Russian had fled,
leaving no trace of his whereabouts. Blagg also was missing, so nothing
further could be learned from that source. Gossip had been rife in the
fishing village over the sudden disappearance of the two men. Then the
matter was apparently forgotten, giving place to the excitement caused
by the installation of the first radio-set on one of the cannery fishing
fleet.
Gregory, who had given orders for a trial equipment before the accident,
was elated to learn from the girl that the innovation was proving a
distinct success. Other sets were installed and the practicability of
the new idea was demonstrated beyond the shadow of a doubt. To quote the
girl, all she had to do was to "spot the fish, click out the signal and
the cannery boats would be round her like a flock of gulls."
Mascola, she told Gregory, had regarded the new departure, at the
outset, as something of a joke. Rock too had ridiculed the idea openly.
But when the cannery fleet got fish while the Italian's boats came in
but scantily-laden, Mascola's laugh changed to a scowl and Rock's flabby
forehead was creased with worried lines.
With the aid of the radio the "patchy" schools along the coast had been
fished to good advantage while Mascola's fleet were forced to cruise as
far as Diablo and San Anselmo in order to obtain fish enough to supply
the rival cannery.
From McCoy's occasional visits Gregory had learned that the plant was
running to its full capacity. Upon the subject, however, of sales and
orders, the house-manager was extremely reticent.
So it was that Gregory passed the long days of his confinement,
rejoicing with Dickie Lang over the growing success of the outside end
and worrying over McCoy's evasion when he was questioned concerning the
disposition of the finished product. And all the while longing for the
time to come when he would be permitted to get back into the harness.
"There's no use letting you go with instructions to take it easy,"
Doctor Kent had said. "I know your kind. When I turn you out I want you
to be going strong."
In that opinion, Aunt Mary concurred. But the time came at last when
Gregory was permitted to leave the Lang cottage and return to the
cannery. Fearing a reversal of the verdict rendered in his favor, he set
out at once. At some distance from the cannery he stopped and inhaled
the fish-laden atmosphere with a singing heart. Once, he remembered, the
odor had sickened him. Now it came like a breath from Heaven. It stirred
his soul, quickened his pulse. He sucked in the tinctured air greedily.
It was life itself. A life that was full and free, teeming with
opportunity, filled with work and fight.
"Long on fish, but short on sales."
Gregory expressed the state of his business with blunt accuracy as he
stood with McCoy in the crowded warehouse.
McCoy admitted the truth of the owner's statement.
"We didn't want to worry you while you were sick," he explained, "but
you can see just where we stand. Something has sure gone wrong with the
selling end. Dick's getting the fish. I'm canning them. But we can't
sell them."
"What's the matter with the Western people?" Gregory asked quickly. "I
thought they were strong for us."
McCoy shrugged. "So did I," he answered. "But a few days after you got
hurt they quit us cold with no explanation. When we fell down on that
first big order of albacore, Winfield & Camby lost interest and I
haven't been able to get a flutter out of them since. The other dealers
seem to be afraid of us for some reason. They come down and look us
over, but that is all."
McCoy scowled at the huge stacks of shining tins and shook his head.
"It's got me," he admitted. "We're putting out a first-class article but
we can't unload it. I've got a hunch somebody's plugging against us."
Noting the worried lines which were finding their way to Gregory's face
at his words, he went on hastily:
"I'm sorry to have you come back into such a tangle as this. I did my
best but you see I didn't have a minute to get out and take care of the
sales."
"Don't say a word, Jack," Gregory interrupted. "You've done more than
your part. Every man of you and every woman too," he added quickly.
"I'll never forget it. This part of the game is up to me. I'm feeling
fit now. Keen to get going. I want to look things over for a few minutes
in the office. Then I'll talk with you again and let you know what I'm
going to do first."
A careful examination of his finances convinced Gregory of the
seriousness of the situation. There was only one thing to be done. He
must visit the jobbers at once.
He paused abruptly in his calculations at the staccato bark of a
high-powered motor. Mascola, he thought, as he rose and walked to the
window. What he saw through the glass caused him to stand staring.
Speeding through the dancing waters of the sunlit bay came a
speed-launch, heading in the direction of the cannery wharf. But it was
not the _Fuor d'Italia_. His eyes followed the course of the oncoming
stranger and a worried frown leaped to his brow. It couldn't be that Joe
Barrows had completed the _Richard_ already. He glanced at the calendar
and his frown deepened. In all probability it was his boat. And if so,
where was he going to get the money to pay for it?
He walked to the wharf and with narrowing eyes watched the stranger's
approach. Something wrong somewhere, he reasoned. He had ordered a
speed-boat. One that would beat Mascola's. A craft with real lines and
bird-like grace like the _Fuor d'Italia_. The oncoming launch, he
observed bitterly, was the direct antithesis of his expectations. Surely
there could be no speed in that squatty packet with her sagging bow and
queer looking box-affair for a stern.
The strange craft drew abreast of the wharf and whirled about in a
wave-washed circle. The motor hummed with contentment and the hull sank
sullenly into the water as the man at the wheel guided the boat in the
direction of the float. Then Gregory caught sight of the letters painted
on the side:
RICHARD
"Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Gregory?"
The man in the boat looked up questioningly.
Gregory walked slowly to the float.
"I'm Mr. Gregory," he answered lifelessly. "I was almost wishing I
wasn't if that's the launch I ordered."
The driver of the craft rested his arms on the big steering wheel and
laughed outright.
"Don't like her, eh?" he grinned.
"Can't say that I do," Gregory answered. "It looks to me like Mr.
Barrows misunderstood my orders."
The stranger's face grew instantly serious.
"You wanted a sea-going craft which could stand rough water and beat the
_Fuor d'Italia_ we built for Mascola," he said slowly. "And you left the
lines and everything else entirely up to us. Is that right?"
Gregory nodded. Then a gleam of hope lighted his eye.
"You think this one will fill the bill?" he questioned.
"If she doesn't, it's up to us," the man answered. Noting the skeptical
look in Gregory's face, he went on: "Don't make the mistake of trying to
judge a boat from the dock, Mr. Gregory. 'You can't tell by the looks of
a frog how far he can jump,' or how fast either. Barrows has been at the
game long enough to quit guessing. When he tackles a proposition like
yours, he wants your money, not your boat. I came down this morning to
take you out for a trial. Then if there's anything you want changed we
can fix it up before we turn her over to you to beat Mascola. If you can
spare the time I'll take you back with me to Port Angeles. That will
give you a good chance to see her perform in rough water as it's blowing
up nasty off the breakwater."
Gregory's face cleared. The suggestion had two-fold value. By acting
upon it at once he could combine business with pleasure. Visit the
jobbers in the city and at the same time test out the launch.
"I'll be ready in half an hour," he answered.
The boatman nodded. "I'll run down-town," he said, "and get a bite to
eat. Don't forget to bring a rain-coat with you. You're liable to get
wet."
Gregory promised and hurried away. In the cannery he found McCoy and
outlined his plans.
McCoy objected. "Better take it easy for a day or two," he counseled.
"No use trying to hit the ball too hard at the start."
Gregory smiled brightly. "I'm feeling like a king, Mac," he said. "I'll
find out what the trouble is with the jobbers and be back sometime
to-morrow."
Seeing that his advice was futile, McCoy left to put up a few samples
while his employer hurried into the office. Gregory turned at once to
his desk. As he prepared the quotations for submission to the jobbers, a
cheery voice interrupted him in his work.
"Welcome home."
In the doorway stood Dickie Lang.
He jumped hastily to his feet and put out his hands.
"Oh, if you only knew how good it was to be back," he began. Then, as he
noticed the girl's rapid change of expression at his words, he hastened
to amend: "I don't mean I was glad to leave your house. I wasn't. It's
the only home I've known for a long time. I was only trying to say how
glad I am to be able to get back to work."
Dickie smiled at his enthusiasm.
"I know," she said. "It's wonderful you were able to get back so soon."
Soon the talk turned to business and Gregory explained his plans for
visiting Port Angeles. Like McCoy, Dickie voiced her objections, but
with more vehemence. Seeing at last, however, that the young man could
not be talked out of it, she exclaimed:
"Never let on to Aunt Mary that I knew you were going or she never would
forgive me. She's kind of adopted you and she told me to look out for
you."
Soon they were discussing the new speed-boat and its practicability at
the present time should it be proved a success.
"Mascola ran across our trammels this morning with a dragnet," the girl
explained. "If you had had that boat, you might have stopped them. He's
getting pretty ugly lately and last night his men tried to crowd ours
off the beach with their seine. If they try it again, there'll be
trouble."
Remembering Gregory's object in going to the city, Dickie suggested:
"While you're in Port Angeles you might look in at the fresh fish
markets and find out what's the matter with them, too. They are bad
enough at best, but they've been getting worse for a long time. Now they
are hardly yielding us enough to pay to ship."
Gregory promised and looking at his watch, saw he would have to leave at
once.
"I wish you could go up there with me," he exclaimed. "Why couldn't you?
I'll wait."
A smile flashed to the girl's lips, then disappeared on the instant. "It
wouldn't be proper," she said gravely. "Port Angeles is a city and
people look at things differently in cities. Aunt Mary would have
nervous prostration if I even suggested it."
McCoy walked with Dickie Lang to the dock to bid Gregory _bon voyage_
and wish him luck on his mission. Then they caught sight of the launch
nearing the float and their disappointment registered in their faces.
Gregory drew the girl aside.
"You have the same idea about her that I had," he said. "But don't
worry. Barrows' man, I guess, knows what he's talking about and if she
doesn't make good I don't take her." Lowering his voice so that only
Dickie could hear, he met her eyes. "You'll notice," he said, "that I
named her Richard. But as boats are always called 'she,' you will
understand that means 'Dickie.'"
Before the girl could recover from her surprise he hurried away and
dropped into the seat beside the driver. As the boatman threw in the
clutch and the launch shot out into the stream, Gregory looked back at
the wharf and noted that Dickie Lang's cheeks were red beneath her tan.
And Jack McCoy, though he said nothing as he walked with the girl along
the dock, wondered what the boss could have said to make Dick blush like
that.