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:

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.