El Diablo Part 29

Boris lunged forward and Mascola caught him roughly by the arm.

"Get out, d.a.m.n you," he cried. "I told you to beat it."

"Tried to get girl," Boris panted. "Gregory man there too. I kill him."

Mascola looked hastily about. When Boris had ceased mumbling, the Italian ordered after a moment's consideration: "Shut up. Go down to my dock the back way. Get on the _Lura_. Wait there for me."

As the Russian slouched down the street, Mascola reopened his door and went into his office. Then he got Ankovitch on the phone.

"Come down to the boat right away," he ordered. "I want you to get right out."

Day was breaking when McCoy stood with d.i.c.kie Lang on the steps of the Lang cottage. The bullet had been found and removed. Kenneth Gregory was resting as well as could be expected. There was danger only through blood-poisoning. The patient was young and strong and should recover.

The doctor from Centerville had just left after agreeing with the local physician's diagnosis.

"And now," McCoy was saying, "as there is nothing more I can do here I'll go back to town. It will sure be up to me from now on."

d.i.c.kie put a hand on his arm and looked earnestly into his eyes.

"It will be up to both of us, Jack. We've simply got to keep things going for him. I might have saved him. Now it's up to me to make good."

As McCoy walked homeward through the brightening light, he strove to consider the events of the night in their proper sequence, but his brain rioted in a jumble of confused impressions. He owed Kenneth Gregory an apology. Now that the boss was down and out it was up to every one to do their level-darnedest. He'd see that they did, too. He was sorry it had all happened. Sorry that he had doubted. Sorry too for other things which he would not admit, even to himself. And down in the bottom of his heart, loyal though it was, Jack McCoy was sorry that Kenneth Gregory had not been taken to Swanson's.

CHAPTER XVIII

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 pa.s.sing. 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 circ.u.mstance.

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 d.i.c.kie 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 d.i.c.kie, 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 d.i.c.kie 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed the long days of his confinement, rejoicing with d.i.c.kie 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. d.i.c.k'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 s.h.i.+ning tins and shook his head.

"It's got me," he admitted. "We're putting out a first-cla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 ant.i.thesis 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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.