Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.

The alarm-clock announced the hour imperiously, triumphantly, the importance of the day being manifest in its resonant warning.

Kenneth Gregory leaped from his bed and hastily donned a brand-new suit of overalls. A young man's first business engagement was not lightly to be passed over. Particularly when it promised a chance for excitement and new adventure. He dressed quickly and hurried out into the street. With difficulty he stumbled through the dark streets and groped his way along the water-front to the Lang wharf. All about him was darkness, opaque and impenetrable.

"You're early."

Gregory found himself blinking into the white light of an electric torch. By his side stood Dickie Lang.

"Yes," he answered. "Wasn't sure whether my clock was right so I set it half an hour ahead."

Still holding him in the rays of the light, the girl examined him critically.

"All right but your shoes," she announced. "You'll break your neck in those leather soles. I'll see if I can rustle a pair of tennis-shoes."

She vanished suddenly and a moment later he saw her light fall upon the burly figures of three bare-footed fishermen shuffling along the dock. She greeted the men familiarly.

"Got that coil for you, Tom. Cache it this time where those thieving devils won't beat you to it. Coils are hard to get right now. Bill, you'd better run down Lucas way and scout around for barracuda. They were beginning to hit in there strong this time last year. How's the baby? I phoned to town last night for that medicine I told you about. They said they'd shoot it out on the first mail."

As she spoke Gregory saw other shadows draw near and hover for a moment in the circle of light. From the hillside above the town lights gleamed from the windows of the fishing colony, the intervening spaces of darkness narrowing second by second until the village stood out like a great checker-board of lights and shadows. Against the background of lights he could see the slender figure of the girl passing among the huge fishermen who towered like giants above her. Radiating energy wherever she went, criticizing some, commending others and joking away the early-morning grouch, she directed the movements of the constantly increasing stream of men who thronged the dock and despatched the boats one by one into the darkness.

When she returned to Gregory's side for a moment she held in her hand a tattered pair of rubber-soled shoes. "They're better than nothing," she explained. "When you are a full-fledged fisherman you won't need shoes. You'll get so you can use your toes like fingers and——"

The rays of her flash-light, which swept the wharf as she spoke, suddenly brought into view the figure of a man lunging unsteadily along the dock. Leaving her sentence unfinished, she was by his side in an instant.

"Nothing doing, Jack. Go home and go to bed. I know all about your wife's sick aunt. No time to listen now. If you're sober by afternoon you can go out with the boys drifting."

The fisherman started to expostulate but she had already left him. Mumbling that she didn't know what sickness was, he stumbled obediently away in the direction of the shore.

"He's been drunk since Tuesday," she announced as she rejoined Gregory. "Too bad, too. Best man I've got in shallow water. You ought to see him handle a dory in the surf."

Again the light picked out a newcomer who stood hesitating a few feet away. "What's the trouble, Pete? Why aren't you on the job?"

"I've got to have more money." The words were spoken boldly and in a tone which drew the attention of all about. A number of fishermen shuffled nearer the speaker and ranged themselves beyond the circle of light within easy hearing distance.

"You want more money," Dickie Lang repeated slowly. "Well about the only reason I could ever think of for paying you any more would be for your nerve in asking for it. Why, I've lost more through your carelessness since you've been on the job than I could make on you in six months. The first shot out of the box you let a piece of barracuda-webbing go adrift and Mascola's gang picked it up right before your eyes and you never cheeped. Then you put one of my motors on the blink because you were too lazy to watch the oil-feed. Where do you think I get off? How long could I run this outfit if all my men were like you? Take a brace and come alive, Pete. That's the way to get more money out of me or any one else. The harder you hit the ball the more you'll get. I don't want to hog it all. The boys will tell you I shoot square."

The fisherman slunk sullenly away and joined his companions. Dickie Lang turned again to Gregory.

"That's one of the things I'm up against," she exclaimed in a low voice. "That fellow is a regular agitator. Talking is his long suit. Why, he didn't even know how to throw a bowline when he hit in here, flat broke and down on his uppers. I've taught him all he knows. And now he's trying to start something. If men weren't so scarce I'd can him in a minute."

Gregory watched the fleet embark, marveling at the manner in which the burly fishermen took orders from a mere slip of a girl. How it must go against their grain, he thought, to be bossed about by a woman. The last of the boats had cleared before the youthful commodore prepared to follow.

"Let's go," she exclaimed impatiently. "We're late now. Mascola's outfit cleared two hours ago."

Leading the way she took Gregory aboard a small fishing vessel which waited at the float below. The motor started the instant their feet touched the deck and a gruff voice growled:

"We've got to go some to make the point by daybreak."

The girl nodded to the dark form at the wheel.

"You said it, Tom. Mascola's gang are mighty near down there by now."

She cast off the lines and jumped again to the boat as the little craft backed from the slip and headed down the bay. While the boat gained headway under the rapid pulse of the powerful motor, she explained:

"Got a string of nets off Long Point. Just put them out yesterday. But I've a pretty good idea we'll load up. That is unless Mascola tries to sew us up. One of his fishing captains was cruising round last night when I left the set."

"But if you had your nets out first," Gregory began.

A low laugh from the girl interrupted him. "You don't know how Mascola does business," she said. "Listen, I'll tell you. Did you ever notice them throw garbage overboard from the deck of a steamer and see one lone gull flying in her wake? The minute he squawks and swoops down to pick it up there's a hundred of them come from all points of the compass to fight it out with him for the spoils. Well, Mascola's men are just like that. We may spot the fish first. We generally do. But that doesn't make the slightest bit of difference to Mascola. It only saves him the trouble. When our nets are out and he sees we're getting a good haul, he lays around us and cuts us off. Do you get the idea?"

Gregory nodded vaguely.

"But can't you do something?" he asked. "I should think——"

Again the girl laughed. "You bet I can do something," she snapped. "You just watch me. That's what I brought you out here for this morning. If those devils try to lay around me, I'll show them a thing or two. I wish we had an earlier start though," she concluded. "They've got the best of it by a couple of hours."

Through the darkness they raced to the open sea. The cool morning breeze blew briskly in their faces and Gregory noticed they were overhauling a few of the stragglers.

"It oughtn't to take you long to catch up with them at this clip," he said admiringly. "Are all of your boats as fast as this one?"

"If they were it would break me up," the girl answered. "The Petrel's my flag ship. She's a gas-hog, but she can travel. She has fifty horse, and built on the lines she is, there aren't many of them around here that can make her run in their wake. Only two in fact," she added. "Mascola's speed-boat and Rossi's fleet-tender."

"Who is Rossi?"

"Mascola's fishing captain. Next to his boss and old Rock, one of the biggest crooks in town. He knows his business though," she supplemented half-admiringly, "and is a good man for Mascola."

"Who's Rock?" asked Gregory.

The girl faced about suddenly.

"Rock's the big man of a little town. He's in everything. The further you go without meeting with him the better off you'll be. He's president of the bank, the Rock Commercial Company and several other concerns. He owns the controlling interest in the Golden Rule Cannery besides. He has a finger in everything. He's a mighty busy man. But he's never too busy to meddle with other people's business. At least he tried to in mine."

Her teeth snapped in a vicious click.

A number of questions crowded to Gregory's mind, as they crossed the jettied inlet and headed down the coast. He asked them in rapid-fire order.

"How many boats have you?"

"Twenty-five. Using sixteen to-day."

"Why don't you run them all?"

"Can't get the men. That is, good ones. I'm hiring and firing all the time. Paying thirty-eight now and that leaves me short-handed even with the boats I'm working."

"How many boats has Mascola?"

The girl was silent for a moment. Then she answered:

"Can't say. Somewhere about fifty, maybe more. It's hard to check him up. His boats cruise a long way out and some of them don't put in to Legonia at all."

"What kind of fish are you catching now?"

"Halibut mostly, some barracuda. Haven't tried for sardines or albacore since your cannery shut down."

The Petrel rolled lazily in the trough of the swell as she sped down the coast. Suddenly the darkness ahead was blurred by an indistinct shape and the man at the wheel put the vessel over sharply. As he did so he narrowly escaped a collision with an unlighted boat which loomed directly across their bow.

"Trawler fishing within the three-mile limit without lights," the girl explained to her passenger.

Gregory remembered Dickie Lang's words concerning alien interference. He knew that running without lights was illegal. Why was the law not enforced?

In answer to his question, the girl burst out: "You just wait. I couldn't take the time now to tell you of all the laws Mascola breaks and if I did you wouldn't believe me."

"How can he get by with it?" Gregory asked.

Dickie Lang walked to the rail and searched the dark water in the direction of the shore before she replied: "There are three different kinds of laws out here. The navigation laws are made by the government, the fishing laws by the state, and the law of the sea is made by the fishermen. If you break the pilot-rules they'll haul you up before the local inspector at Port Angeles and fine you, take away your license or put you in jail. But they've got to have the proof and that is hard to get. If you break the state's laws you run up against the fish commissioner. His deputies do their best to protect the fish and see that the fishermen use the right kind of gear. If they catch an outfit with the goods, they put them over. But it's hard to do."

She stared away into the faintly graying darkness.

"Cut through the kelp, Tom. It will save us a little and we're going to need it."

"And the fisherman's law you spoke about. What is that?" Gregory queried.

She faced him suddenly. "I don't know how to explain it," she said. "Every one has to learn it for himself. It's the law of the biggest and fastest boat. The law of the longest and strongest arm. The law of sand and a quick trigger."

Gregory felt his pulse quicken as she went on:

"You see we have to depend on ourselves out here to settle our troubles. Whatever happens, happens quick. Generally there are not many witnesses. If you knew trouble was coming, you might get a deputy to come out, but the chances are ten to one they wouldn't. They would say it was only a fisherman's row and tell you to swear out a warrant. And if you go to law, Mascola will bring five witnesses for each of yours and they'll outswear you every time for they can lie faster than a man can write it down."

Again she paused and searched the gray border of the receding curtain of night. Far away Gregory could hear the roar of the breakers. From out the gray dusk ahead appeared the shadowy outline of a rugged promontory jutting far out into the sea.

"Keep close in, Tom. Our last string's dead ahead, off Peeble Beach. When you get around the point swing on the outside of Coward Rocks and give her all she'll stand."

She walked slowly about the deck with her eyes fixed on the wave-washed shore-line.

"So you see each outfit makes its own laws and it's up to them to enforce them. Our law is to mind our own business and get the fish. The only law we break is Mascola's. He tries to tell us where to fish. He bullies the ones he can and fights the ones he can't in any way that is easiest and safest. He's a thief and a crook and he'd commit murder in a minute if he thought he could get by with it."

The idea lodged in her brain. She leaned closer and exclaimed in a low voice: "And how do we know he doesn't get by with murder the way he does with everything else? There's many a man picked up along the coast as a 'floater' that nobody knows how he drowned."

Daybreak was upon them as they hugged the shore-line and slipped into the protecting shadow of Long Point. Dickie Lang's words sank deep into Gregory's consciousness. A half-formed question found its way at last to his lips.

"Do you think," he began, but was interrupted by the man at the wheel.

"Can't make the inside channel. Have to go round."

He altered the helm as he spoke. Dickie Lang jumped to his side.

"We've got to run the short-cut, Tom. No use going round. They'd spot us a mile away in this light. If they're laying round my nets I want to surprise them. I'll take the boat."

The fisherman surrendered the wheel and sidled out of the way.

"She's your boat," he said with blunt emphasis. "But don't forget it's my license. I wouldn't take the chance."

The girl nodded. "My license is hanging up in the engine-room," she retorted. "If anything happens, it's me that is responsible. I won't forget."

She spun the wheel over as she spoke and the Petrel swerved like a gull and headed straight for the rugged cliff which towered high above the foaming water, bold and defiant of the angry waves which dashed relentlessly at its base.

Off the port bow Gregory saw a narrow pathway of quiet water fringed on one side by white-toothed swells, on the other by the barnacled feet of the point itself. He leaned over the rail and followed the course of the ribbon-like path which wound like a snake among the curling waves and jagged rocks. Could that be the channel the girl meant to take?

Dickie Lang's eyes were fixed with his upon the devious waterway. The hand which held the wheel was steady and the Petrel plunged boldly on as if bent upon flinging its fragile shell upon the time-defying rocks of Long Point.

Gregory measured the distance to the overhanging ledge. What was the use of taking such a chance as this? It looked like one in a million. In another minute they would pile up. They were almost abreast of the thread-like channel when he saw the fingers on the wheel tighten. The steering gear whirred and the Petrel leaped forward to answer the master-hand at the helm.

Then came the miracle.

The slim bow of the little craft swung about. For a second she wallowed in the trough of the ground-swell, rose high on its foaming crest and nestled slowly down in the quiet water of the rock-bound channel. And the distance to safety had been gained by the scant margin of only a few inches. A sharper or blunter turn would have ripped the vessel from bow to stern. Was it luck? He shook his head slowly. Then he began to understand why the fishermen took orders from Dickie Lang. He was recalled to himself by a laughing voice and he saw that the girl's eyes were sparkling, as she said without turning her head:

"Did you think you were going to have to swim ashore?"

Gregory laughed. "I could feel the water about my ears," he said. Then he added: "Do you do stunts like that often?"

She shook her head. "Sometimes it is necessary to take a chance," she answered. "You've got to catch Mascola's bunch red-handed. When we round the 'bull-nose' we'll be right on top of our nets."

Her lips were firmly compressed and the little lines which suddenly appeared about her mouth were hard. With her eyes still held by the barnacled rocks, she snapped: "Then you may see something."

They were nearing the end of Long Point. Throttling the throbbing motor until its soft breathing could be heard only a few boat-lengths, she nodded to the fisherman:

"All right, Tom. She's yours. Plenty of water from here on. When you round 'bull-nose' head for the cove with all you've got."

Relieved from the wheel she dodged into the engine-room and returned with two rifles. Flashing a glance shoreward to determine the Petrel's position she rejoined Gregory and handed him one of the guns. Gregory reached eagerly for the weapon. For the past hour he had been forced to sit by a spectator. Now was a chance to do something. To play a game he knew. His fingers caressed the stock of the Winchester as the girl exclaimed:

"Don't suppose there is any use telling you how to shoot. Only at sea things are a little different. You have to count on the roll. Sight full until you get on the range. Distances are deceiving on the water. Pull on the slow rise if you can. That's when she's steadiest."

He noted her quiet manner of speaking and the businesslike way with which she handled her gun. What she meant for him to do he did not clearly understand. Whatever it was, she would find him ready. He slipped a shell into the barrel from the magazine, and waited. He noticed that the girl was watching him closely as they came to the end of the winding channel. Then she gave him brief instructions.

"When we pass that big rock ahead we'll head in. Then you will see a string of nets. You may see two strings, one laid around the other. If any of Mascola's gang are hanging around I'm going to try to persuade them to give me sea-way."

She set her lips grimly and tapped the rifle. Drawing a pair of binocular-glasses from her pocket she focused them carefully.

"Don't shoot until I do. If they are trying to lay around I'll open up on them and start them moving. Aim at the water-line and pump away as fast as you like. All right, Tom. Give her the gun."

The Petrel leaped under the advancing throttle and raced for the curiously fashioned nub at the cliff's end.

Gregory crowded forward, striving to catch a glimpse of the water beyond. As they flashed by the "bull-nose" she saw silhouetted against the brightening light which streamed across the water from the beach, the sharp outline of a fishing-boat. Then he heard a low exclamation from the girl.

"He's laid around my string," she gritted, and again the glasses flashed to her eyes. She whirled on the fisherman. "Look at that, Tom! He's stripping my nets. I've got him with the goods this time and, so help me God, I'm going to make him pay. Don't shoot," she cautioned Gregory. "Wait till we get closer. I want to get him with the deadwood. Wide open, Tom, we'll run him off his legs. I'll——"

A puff of white smoke drifted upward from the deck of the launch ahead and floated lazily above the rigging. Some fifty feet beyond the port bow of the Petrel the water leaped upward in a tiny spout. Dickie's rifle sounded in Gregory's ear and the report of his own prolonged the echoes. As he pumped in another cartridge he noted that the girl's eyes were shining and her red lips were parted in a smile. Between shots he heard her mutter:

"Can you beat that? The dirty robbers are going to stay and fight?"