Everything was coming his way. Kenneth Gregory glanced again at his first balance-sheet. The cannery had been in operation but a single month and already the business was exceeding his fondest expectations. He glanced at the chart which hung by his side. Forty-two completely equipped fishing-boats in the water and every one fully manned. He smiled as he thought of Dickie Lang's astonishment at the manner in which the ex-navy men had taken hold of the work.

His smile broadened too as he noted the receipts from the fresh fish and the canned product. Fishing had sure been good. And there had been little or no interference from Mascola. Since the day when Dickie had accepted his proposition all had gone smoothly. Gregory attributed his success to the carrying out of an idea. It had worked. It had to work. And it was his idea.

On the floor of the cannery, Dickie Lang was also analyzing the phenomenal success of the Legonia Fish Cannery while she waited for the owner to accompany her on their daily cruise to the fishing grounds.

"I'll tell you, Jack, it gets my goat how things began to pick up the very minute I threw up my contract. He's had nothing but luck ever since."

"I wouldn't say that, Dick," McCoy objected. "The boss's idea was worth something. Of course I——"

"Oh, rats! I'm sick of hearing everybody talking about an idea. All these fellows in here think that Kenneth Gregory can't make a mistake. They think that nobody else could have done what he did."

"That's what you want fellows to think who are working for you, isn't it?" ventured McCoy.

Dickie gasped. Had McCoy too fallen a victim to hero-worship? McCoy, who had been her loyal friend, and servant? She determined to find out to what extent he had transferred his allegiance.

"Do you think Mr. Gregory did any more than I could have done?" she flashed.

McCoy endeavored to temporize. "Well, in a way he didn't," he said, "and then again he did. You see——"

But Dickie refused to see. Whirling angrily, she walked rapidly toward the office. Anything to get away from hearing Gregory's praises chanted from every lip. Better be with the idol himself than his devout followers. She flung open the door and entered the office. Gregory faced her with a smile. A self-satisfied smile, the girl thought. In his hand was a paper.

"Look at that," he exclaimed. "My idea has worked out a lot better than I anticipated."

Dickie glanced coldly at the sheet but made no effort to take it from his hand. Looking him full in the eye, she observed:

"I'm about caught up with that idea of yours. I don't see that there is anything in it to cause any one to get the swelled-head."

"Who's getting the swelled-head?" demanded Gregory, the smile passing from his face.

"Well, I'm not," retorted the girl, laying special stress on the pronoun. "I've seen too much of this game to have my head turned by a little luck."

Gregory overlooked the implication and admitted soberly:

"Yes, we sure have had luck. There's no denying that. I never had any idea the boys would take to the game the way they have."

"They wouldn't if it hadn't been for my fishermen taking all the trouble they did with them. Why, a lot of those fellows were seasick when they first came down here. They were 'rocking-chair sailors.' My men made them what they are. I don't see any luck in that."

Gregory smiled provokingly.

"No, I don't suppose there was," he said. "What I meant was I was lucky in getting hold of men who really wanted to learn. You've admitted several times that they got along faster than you had any idea they would."

"Anybody could catch fish the way they've been running the last few weeks," evaded Dickie. "I never saw anything like it before. Nearly every boat comes in with a good haul. And when the local market was glutted at Port Angeles, you shot them up north and just tumbled on to a good market as Frisco was out of fish. That was nothing but luck," she challenged.

"And now we have orders for all canned stuff we can turn out," Gregory put in.

"Sure you have. From the Western outfit. I wouldn't trust them out of sight with a case of fish. They'll eat the stuff up as long as you can throw it to them in big lots. That gives them a chance to beat you down on the price. The first bad run of luck you have, they'll drop you cold. I know. They did the same thing with your father the very first time he began to fall down on his output."

"Yes, but——"

"You're not going to fall down." She took the words from his mouth and hurried on: "That is just what I was afraid of. Your luck has gone to your head. You have an idea things are always going to be like this. I know better. And you'll know before you get through. The fish are liable to head out to sea any day."

"You guessed wrong about what I was going to say," Gregory announced. "I was going to tell you I had an order from Winfield & Camby for a shipment of albacore if we can get them out right away. Suppose the fish do run to sea," he went on. "I'll back you to find them if any one can. And we're well equipped now to follow them up."

Dickie was somewhat mollified but she took care not to show it.

"You're not figuring on Mascola either," she began.

"Mascola," Gregory repeated. "Why, he's been decent enough the last two or three weeks."

"I know it," she interrupted. "That's what has me guessing. It isn't like Mascola to be that way. He's been checking up on us right along, but he hasn't bothered any of our boats since he lost the Roma. It's about time he showed his hand."

"We have nearly as many boats as he has now," Gregory observed. "Maybe he thinks——"

Again the girl anticipated his words.

"Get that out of your head," she snapped. "If you think Mascola's quit, you're wrong. The more boats dad got, the harder Mascola fought him. It's only when an outfit gets big enough to make a showing that he begins to get busy."

"We'll have the rest of the cannery boats out the last of the week," Gregory announced. "I'll have the boys rush them. We won't start anything, but just get good and ready. It's Mascola's move. I've made it perfectly clear to all the men that we are not looking for trouble."

Dickie was silent for a moment. Then she said:

"I have an idea that Rock gave Mascola a 'bum steer' and that both of them are just beginning to find out their mistake."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Rock guessed wrong. He told a lot of people around town when you opened up that you'd be broke in thirty days. He and Mascola are pretty thick and the chances are he told Mascola the same thing and the dago believed him. Now they're beginning to find out they slipped up in not trying to cripple you before you got your men broken in. I've just got a hunch it won't be long before we hear from Mascola. He's bringing more boats in here every day from down the coast and the islands."

Seeing they were getting nowhere by their talk, Gregory tossed the balance sheet to the desk and got to his feet.

"We'd better be on our way," he said.

With Dickie following, he lead the way out into the cannery where he stopped for a moment to speak to McCoy. "I'm going outside for a while, Mac. If the Western people call up, tell them we're shipping the last of those sardines to-day. Sound them out on albacore prices in job lots."

Dickie turned away at the mention of the jobbers. Gregory evidently thought very little of her advice. Biting her lips, she walked to the door to wait on the receiving platform. McCoy watched his employer follow after her. Dick was sore at him. He'd have to go up to the house this evening and try to square himself. She was evidently sore at Gregory, too. And in that thought, McCoy derived some consolation.

With the crisp sea air fanning their faces as they headed out to sea, Dickie's irritability vanished. Desirous of starting conversation after a protracted silence, she began: "Who do you think I saw down-town the other day?"

Gregory could not guess. "I was in the bank," she began after a moment, hoping Gregory would not notice that at times she did frequent Rock's institution. "And that crazy fool, Boris, was in there trying to borrow some money. He's been hanging round town ever since Mascola fired him. When I've seen him he's been drunk on Japanese sake. He has it in for me because all the fishermen kid him about being run on the rocks by a girl. When I stepped back from the teller's window, Boris lunged against me and started to mumble something. But before he had hardly opened his mouth, a well-dressed man came from somewhere and threw him half across the room. And who do you think it was?"

Again Gregory shook his head.

"Bandrist."

As Gregory voiced his surprise, the girl went on:

"You wouldn't have known him. He was all dolled-up and looked like a different man. He knew me all right and he had the nerve to ask me if he could come to see me," she concluded.

Gregory's dislike of Bandrist increased.

"What did you tell him?" he asked.

Dickie laughed.

"I told him I wasn't any more anxious to receive callers at my home than he was at his."

Gregory wondered if the caustic answer to Bandrist might have been retailed for his own benefit. He reflected suddenly that Dickie Lang had never so much as intimated that he would be a welcome guest at her home. Well, there was no use dwelling on it now. He had never bothered the girl, and never would.

"Bandrist is no ordinary sheep-man," she went on. "And I know it. He's working some kind of a game over there that he doesn't want people to butt in on." She paused abruptly and her eyes narrowed. "I wonder," she began, but left her sentence unfinished as she noticed that Gregory was regarding her curiously.

"What?" he prompted.

"Nothing," she said. "Maybe some day I'll tell you. But not now."

Gregory knew her well enough to know that nothing could be gained by urging. During the silence that fell upon them the minds of both were working in parallel grooves, groping for a way of light to lighten the darkness of an unsolved mystery. When they reached the albacore banks and sighted the vanguard of the fishing fleet, both came back sharply, back from the maze of doubt and intangible suspicions which clouded their brains as the fog had clouded the island that held their thoughts.

Making the rounds of the albacore fishermen the truth of the girl's pessimistic prophecy became strikingly apparent. The fish had undoubtedly taken to sea. Laying-to to check one of the last of the few remaining boats which rode at anchor, Dickie consulted her tally-sheet and shook her head.

"Not much in this," she averred. "It's a losing game so far. And there's only Big Jack with the Albatross yet to hear from. We ought to find him cruising off the seal rocks. He's generally the first out and the last to come in. He never gives up while there's a chance left. I've seen him 'chumming' for albacore all day and then bring in a bunch hours after everybody else had given up."

As they drew near the Albatross she hailed the fisherman: "How are the fish, Jack?"

Big Jack continued throwing the live bait from the tanks into the water. Then he straightened up and hitched at his suspender.

"They're beginnin' to come in like hell," he bellowed.

The fisherman was right. Gregory looked over the rail and gasped with wonderment. The sea about them was literally alive with fish. The lines which flashed over the side of the Albatross scarcely touched the water before the fish struck.

Dickie's eyes snapped at the sight.

"Put her about," she cried to Gregory. "And beat it as fast as you can for home. We'll make a killing if we can just overhaul enough of the boys to get in on the run. Load up, Jack," she called as the vessel swung about. "Cruise up and down and keep 'chumming' so we won't lose them. We're going after the fleet. Pound her for all she'll stand," she instructed Gregory. "Every minute means money."

They had been running only a few minutes when they sighted Mascola's speed-boat astern. The girl frowned as the Fuor d'Italia roared by in a swirl of white water.

"This is where speed counts," she exclaimed. "If Mascola tumbles on to Big Jack he'll have his gang around the Albatross before we can get within hailing distance of our nearest boat."

Gregory watched the rapidly disappearing speed-boat anxiously. It was on his tongue to tell the girl of the launch Joe Barrows was building for him at Port Angeles, a craft which the boat-builder guaranteed in the contract would beat the boat he had built for the Italian.

"Keeping in close touch is everything in this business," Dickie observed. "Fish come in bunches. The ocean's spotted like a checker-board. You may have one boat loading up and another right around the next point doing nothing. That's where Mascola wins out," she exclaimed. "He scouts round and tips his fleet off if you've anything good. Then they're down on you like a flock of gulls."

Before they caught up with the stragglers of the cannery fleet they sighted the alien fishing-boats coming in their direction. Dickie's brow was overcast.

"Just what I was afraid of," she cried. "He's tipped them off. We're going to lose a lot to-day on account of not being able to keep closer together and being shy on a fast boat. You might as well get the idea of filling that albacore order out of your head right now."

As they overhauled the cannery boats and headed them back to the seal rocks, Gregory considered the girl's words about keeping in closer touch. If he was going to beat Mascola, he'd have to get there first. The speed-launch which Barrows was building for him would serve as a signal boat, but even that would not serve to keep the other boats in constant touch with one another. Before they reached the last of the available boats they met Mascola coming back. While the girl stormed at their helplessness to cope with the situation, Gregory spoke in monosyllables and wrestled with his problem.

He considered the methods of communication employed by the army in connecting the various units. One by one he discarded them. The semaphore would serve only for short distances and then only when the boats were within sight of each other. The same argument would apply against the wig-wag. The heliograph would be useless in stormy weather or in fog. A fast launch would help out, but even that would not completely solve the difficulty. How did boats keep in touch with one another? The answer came at once. Why hadn't he thought of it before?

When they came in sight of the seal rocks they saw the masts of the two fleets clustered thickly about the Albatross.

"Look at that," snapped the girl. "Now, maybe you'll believe I know what I'm talking about. We were asleep and Mascola's beat us to it. It won't take him long to fish them out with an outfit like that. He's got our boats on the outside now, taking what's left."

Gregory saw that she was right. Mascola's boats were crowded closely about the Albatross and his own fleet was completely fenced off.

"What did I tell you? He's got them already. Look! He's ready to move. While we've been crawling along in this old tub, he's cleaned up."

The alien fleet began to get under way as she spoke and headed about. Darting past his boats came Mascola. Noting the tardy arrival of the oncoming launch, he made straight for them. Slowing down, he drifted by with his white teeth flashing in an insolent smile. Then he opened the throttle and the Fuor d'Italia leaped forward and raced away with an angry roar.

When they reached the Albatross, Big Jack was apoplectic with rage. It was some minutes before he could master his speech sufficiently to explain the situation. Mascola had arrived when they were hardly out of sight, had watched them pulling in the fish and had gone at once to summon his boats. The aliens had come upon him from around the point in ever-increasing numbers. Had hedged him and taken his school. When the cannery boats arrived the albacore quit biting and took to other waters.

Dickie Lang issued orders for the return of the fleet to Legonia. Then she vented her wrath on Kenneth Gregory.

"So you thought you had Mascola beaten, did you? What did I tell you? Didn't I say he'd come back at the first chance? Albacore fishing is where he's always been strong. And that's about all there is from now on. We've got to come alive and forget these ideas and get down to brass tacks. Mascola beat us hands down and we couldn't lift a finger to stop him. What are you going to do about it? That's what I want to know."

Gregory curbed his rising anger and answered quietly:

"Before I tell you what I'm going to do, I'd like to ask you a question. What could we have done legally to break through Mascola's fence?"

"Nothing. That's where he had us. He got there first. To get in to the fish we'd have had to ram his boats and he'd have you up before the local inspectors in no time if you had done that. If he had laid his nets around ours it would have been different. You could demand sea-way and run through them if he didn't move. But this way he had us over a barrel. And he knew it. It's a trick no white man would do. But I guess even you will admit now that there isn't a drop of white blood in that dago's body."

"Then about the only way we could have beaten him," pursued Gregory, "would have been to have got there first and covered our own boats. Is that right?"

"Yes. But that is not so easy as it sounds."

"It is not so hard either," Gregory went on. "I have an idea that I think will work out all right."

Dickie's eyes flashed.

"Forget your ideas!" she snapped. "You've got to have a whole lot more than ideas when you start out to beat Mascola."

Gregory felt his patience oozing from him at her words. It was bad enough to lose an order from a firm he hoped to get in strong with, without the girl rubbing it in.

"You haven't done anything yet but find fault," he said. "You have been at this game a lot longer than I have. Maybe you have something to suggest."

Something in his voice caused Dickie to quiet down. She began to cast about in her mind for an answer.

"You've got to keep your boats in closer touch," she began. "So Mascola can't work this same deal on us again."

"That is exactly what I am going to do."

"You'll have to show me."

"I will. I'm going to show you and Mascola both. By wireless."

Before she could interrupt, he hurried on: "Listen. Half of these navy men know the International code. The others can learn easy enough with some one to teach them who has worked at a radio key. I have several who have done that and can rig the sets."

"You must think you're a millionaire. You aren't running a line of steamships. Come down to——"

"The sets won't cost much," Gregory went on calmly. "If they did all these kids along the shore wouldn't have them. A fifty or one-hundred-mile radius would be enough for us. And it wouldn't take them long to pay for themselves. If we had had the boats equipped with radio outfits to-day we could have beaten Mascola at his own game. When Big Jack 'chummed' up the albacore the rest of our boats would have known it before Mascola got there. The fish he caught to-day would pay for quite a few sets."

"It would pay for itself in another way if it would work," supplemented Dickie, much to Gregory's surprise. "Lots of times a boat breaks down and drifts on to a reef. If she could get word to some one close by they could take her in tow or even pull her off before she was hurt much."

Discussing the pros and cons of the new idea, they took their way toward Legonia. When they arrived at the Lang wharf the girl grudgingly admitted that the plan might work. At least it might justify a trial. Leaving Dickie at her own dock Gregory was about to proceed up the bay to the cannery wharf when she came over to the rail and exclaimed in a low voice:

"Oh, yes. Another thing. I didn't have a chance to look at that statement you had this morning. If you're not too busy to-night, you might bring it up to the house."