PLANS FOR A SHOW-DOWN
Shall the control of our fisheries pass into foreign
hands?
Riot among Legonia fishermen raises interesting
question. Ex-service men contest forcibly with aliens
for freedom of the seas. Show-down expected in the near
future.
"How does that strike you?" Hawkins grinned and shoved the copy of _The
Times_ forward as "Exhibit A" for publicity. "Notice the date line," he
exclaimed. "From our own correspondent."
Kenneth Gregory read the news item carefully before replying. First came
a true account of the fight with Mascola's men on the beach which had
ended in the decisive victory for the service men. Followed, in
chronological order, a review of past interferences suffered by the
American fishermen at the hands of the foreigners. And lastly, glowingly
outlined, came his plans for meeting the opposition by a cooperative
organization of one hundred per cent. bona-fide Americans. The article
concluded:
The public will watch with a great deal of interest the
outcome of Mr. Gregory's fight to regain control of a
lost industry in local waters. Should the young cannery
owner succeed, it will mean much to the people of Port
Angeles in reducing the high cost of living. For Mr.
Gregory has already under way, comprehensive plans for
supplying the public with fresh fish at a greatly
reduced price, through his system of establishing
cooperative markets and dealing direct with the
consumer.
Gregory's face was radiant with satisfaction.
"You're there on that kind of stuff, Bill," he exclaimed, gripping
Hawkins by the hand. "You surely put it over in great shape."
Hawkins frowned.
"Fell down on one thing," he observed. "The city editor blue-penciled my
direct reference to your brands of canned stuff. Claimed it was slapping
the ad man right in the face. Say, I'll tell you what to do," he went
on. "Let me write you up some good ads for your stuff and shoot them in
right away to the advertising department. That will put you in strong
with the paper and I can 'dead-head' a lot more dope through."
Gregory gave Hawkins _carte blanche_.
As Hawkins set to work, Dickie Lang entered.
"Light haul all around," she announced. "The albacore are heading out.
Looks as if we were going to have a little weather."
Gregory's expression changed quickly at her news.
"That means we've got to follow them up," he said. "We've got to have
the fish. We've been putting it over on Mascola for the past few weeks
and we can't fall down now. The jobbers are watching us and we've got
to show them we can deliver the goods. In addition to that I am going to
enter into quite an extensive advertising campaign and when it begins to
bear its fruit, we've got to have the stuff on hand to come across.
There are a lot of people looking this way right now and we've got to
make good."
"That's the way to talk," encouraged Hawkins. Then he smiled at the girl
and nodded toward his friend. "Notice how I'm bringing him alive," he
exclaimed. "He's quit 'shooting nickels' now. He's raised his sights
already."
They all smiled at Hawkins' enthusiasm. Then the girl's face became
serious.
"You know what going out to sea means," she said quietly. "It just about
means Diablo. That's where Mascola's boats went this morning and I
shouldn't wonder if they struck it out there. When they get back we'll
know."
"We've got to know before that," Gregory averred. "Why not send a bunch
of the boys over right away?"
Dickie shook her head with great emphasis.
"Haven't the gear," she objected. "It's liable to be nasty around the
island at this time of the year. We're shy on deep-sea hooks and heavy
line."
"We'll get it." Gregory turned to the telephone. "I'll order it by
express," he announced, as he put in his call for the ship-chandlers at
Port Angeles. While he waited for the call, he addressed Dickie Lang.
"We can send some over right away, can't we?"
She considered. Then nodded acquiescence. "The _Pelican_ and the
_Curlew_ are outfitted for that kind of work," she stated. "We could get
them moving in half an hour. They could go over and do the scouting.
They both have the wireless, you know."
Gregory made up his mind at once.
"Will you give me a list of the stuff you need?" he asked. "As soon as I
get this call through I'll come out and we'll get them started. We ought
to get the stuff we need to-night, or early to-morrow. Then the rest can
clear." His face brightened. "I'll have the _Richard_ to-morrow," he
said. "Bronson's going to bring her back and stay two or three days to
put me on to the ropes. We'll get him to take us to Diablo."
"Count me in on that too," exclaimed Hawkins. "I've got it coming.
Haven't had a breath of salt air since I've been here."
The girl completed her list of the required gear as the telephone rang.
Gregory turned to the instrument and gave the order.
"What's that?" he concluded. "You'll have to have the cash? Thirty days
is customary on that kind of stuff, isn't it? Well, I've got to have
it.--All right, go ahead and draw on me if that's the way you feel about
it.--But send the stuff." He turned wrathfully to the girl. "The
robbers," he said. "They have me in a hole and they know it. We have to
have that gear right away though Heaven only knows where I'm going to
raise the money to pay for it."
The problem of raising approximately three thousand in cash before ten
o'clock the following morning presented its difficulties. Gregory
decided to tackle the matter without delay.
"I'll try the local bank," he declared. "And give old Rock a chance to
make good on his promise."
Dickie strove to dissuade him.
"Keep in the clear of that old hypocrite," she cautioned. "If he lets
you have it at all it will be only with strings which will tangle you up
later on."
Gregory was on his way to the door.
"A man needing money like I do at present has to get it where he can,"
he answered. "Will you see to getting the _Pelican_ and _Curlew_ started
as soon as possible?"
She promised and he hurried out.
Gregory found Rock in his private office at the bank and was welcomed
warmly by the financier.
"Growing more like your father every day you live," was the president's
greeting. "How happy we would all be if he could have been spared to
this community."
Gregory lost no time in preliminaries.
"You told me if I ever got into a tight place, you'd see me through," he
began.
Rock nodded and the corners of his thick lips turned downward.
"I sincerely trust you have met with no business reverses, my young
friend," he purred. "However, if such is the case, feel perfectly free
to make me your confidant."
Briefly Gregory stated his case, to which the old man listened
attentively. When he had concluded, Rock's eyes were on the ceiling, and
his soft white hands caressed the desk noiselessly.
"If you will accept a word of advice from a man old enough to be your
father, and one who is entirely disinterested in you, save in a personal
way as the son of my old friend, you will----"
"What?"
Gregory cut short his rambling.
"Stay away from Diablo Island."
Rock's advice carried a mandatory note which was not lost upon his
auditor.
"Why?" Gregory asked quickly.
Rock searched the far corners of the room for the answer to the
question. At length he replied: "It is an extremely dangerous place,
particularly at this season of the year. Storms are prevalent about
Diablo and by making the venture at this time, you place not only your
capital in jeopardy, but the lives of your men as well."
Gregory realized he had little time for argument.
"I've asked for a loan of three thousand for ten days, Mr. Rock. It's up
to you. What will you do for me?"
A slight frown passed over the bank president's forehead at the young
man's insistence. For a moment he gave his entire attention to the
blotter on the desk. Then he said:
"I will let you have the money you desire on one condition. That you
confine your operations to coastal waters. Your security will then be
comparatively safe and----"
"You forget, Mr. Rock, that I am not taking my cannery with me to El
Diablo," Gregory broke in. "Don't you regard the plant and the canned
product on the floor as sufficient security for a temporary loan of
three thousand dollars?"
Rock nodded. After a moment's silence he said: "Then there is another
thing. This is a time to speak plainly. Otherwise I would make no
mention of it. But as you are seeking a favor at the hands of this bank,
it is my duty to inform you that we do not wish to countenance or
encourage, in any way, your policy of stirring up trouble with our alien
population."
Gregory rose angrily.
"There is no use of my taking up your time or mine any further," he
said. "My business is my own. And while we're on the subject I'll say
that I intend to run it as I please. Neither myself nor my men are
seeking trouble with Mascola's foreigners. But I'll tell you here and
now that we are prepared to fight, if need be, for what the law says we
can have. We want only a square deal, Mr. Rock, and you can take it from
me we are going to get it."
Walking out of the bank president's office Gregory observed a familiar
figure leaning idly against one of the grated wickets. And though the
man was dressed in the extreme of fashion, he had no difficulty in
recognizing him. It was Leo Bandrist, the lord of El Diablo. Gregory
returned the islander's nod and hurried to the street. As he walked to
the cannery he found it hard to concentrate his thoughts on the problem
of raising the desired funds. Rock was a royal old hypocrite. Of that he
was sure now. The financier had used his influence among the jobbers to
some purpose. He had knocked him through his local paper. And now he was
telling him, almost threatening him, to stay away from El Diablo. His
mind flashed again to Bandrist. What brought the man to Rock's bank?
Business, no doubt. But what kind? Was Rock backing Bandrist? Were the
two men in cahoots with Mascola's gang? If so, for what purpose?
The questions multiplied with astonishing rapidity. When Gregory arrived
at the cannery he had decided upon a definite course of action. He would
wire Farnsworth, the estate's attorney, to sell his bonds at a sacrifice
if need be. They should bring enough, added to his own personal account,
to pay for the equipment he desired. After that, he'd go to Diablo and
call Rock's bluff, whatever it was.
It was late that evening before he received an answer from the lawyer.
Farnsworth had regarded the instructions of his client as sheer idiocy
and had taken no pains to conceal the fact. But he had sold the bonds
and was forwarding the money. Close upon the message from the attorney
came one from the ship-chandlers at Port Angeles. They were shipping the
gear in the early morning. Gregory heaved two great sighs of relief
which adequately expressed his feelings at the contents of the two
respective messages.
The day had ended better than he anticipated. The _Pelican_ and the
_Curlew_ were at Diablo by now. He should hear from them any minute.
While he was waiting there was much that he could do. He took up his
personal bank-book and began to balance it. A low rap at the office-door
interrupted him.
Dickie Lang entered with McCoy and Hawkins.
"We've been out for a walk," she announced. "Thought we'd stop in and
see if you'd heard anything from the boys yet."
"Not yet," Gregory answered. "I'm going to keep a man at the key all
night. We should have heard before this. They got a fairly early start
and with good weather should have hit the island in time to get a good
line on things before dark. I just got a wire from the ship-chandlers
and they are shipping the stuff the first thing in the morning."
As the talk turned to Diablo, Hawkins listened attentively though he
said but little. At length the party rose to go.
As Gregory was bidding them good night one of the radio men entered with
a message. Gregory glanced at the meaningless jumble of words and shook
his head.
"Too much for me," he announced. "I haven't savvied the code out well
enough yet to read this one."
The operator again took the message.
"Haven't been using it long," he answered. "But one of the boys dropped
on to a little rig on one of the cliffs a little way from here, so we
thought it was just as well to be careful."
Gregory nodded and the company drew closer to the operator as he bent
over his work. When the message was decoded it read:
Off Northwest Harbor El Diablo
From: Launch _Pelican_.
Albacore tuna running close shore this end. Slipped
round Mascola's boats by running round south shore. His
fleet off Hell-Hole Isthmus. Spotted them hour ago.
Don't think he's wise we're here. Can load up fleet if
they get here quick and can dodge by Mascola. What shall
we do?
The message was signed by Tom Howard.
Dickie beamed at the news.
"I know right where he is," she said. "When you get them that close in
at this time of the year it means they are running in bunches and
there's pretty apt to be some weather."
She glanced at her watch.
"Not much sleep for me to-night," she announced. "I've got a lot to do
before morning. Guess I'll be on my way. It will mean work to clear by
to-morrow noon and every minute is going to count."
"It will mean a scrap with Mascola too, unless I miss my guess," put in
McCoy. "When he finds we are hitting into his territory there's liable
to be trouble."
Hawkins' eye brightened at the possibility. "That will mean a story for
me," he contributed.
"It will mean more than all that," Gregory said slowly. "It means the
thing we need most--money. Fish in car-load lots. A chance to show the
jobbers we know our business. It may mean a show-down with Mascola. And
if it does, we've got to be ready when it comes."