Gregory leaped nimbly beyond reach of the Russian's waving arms and placed his back to the moonlight. Meeting the fisherman's blind rush with a quick blow to his heavy jaw, he sidestepped and struck again. Boris blocked the fist with a sweep of his long arm and clinched. For an instant the bodies of the two men rocked in the gripping power of the embrace. Then they fell to the roadway.

Dickie Lang stopped suddenly as she saw the struggling figures in the path. A fight between two drunken fishermen was the commonest thing in Legonia. She'd better not get mixed up in it. They were not her men. She knew that. None of her fisherman lived up here but Swanson, and the Swede she knew was at home. Making a wide detour through the brush which carried her beyond sight of the scuffle, she hurried on.

"Where's Dick, Aunt Mary?"

There was a note in Jack McCoy's voice which made Miss Lang regard him sharply before replying:

"She's gone down to Swanson's, John. One of the babies was sick."

"Has Mr. Gregory been back since I left? I'm looking for him."

McCoy was ashamed of the question. Still it was better to find out from Aunt Mary than to try to explain to her niece.

"Yes. He left only a few minutes ago. He inquired for Josephine and when I told him where she had gone, he said he would go to meet her."

Shaking his head weakly at Aunt Mary's question if anything was wrong, McCoy turned slowly and walked down the path. Everything was wrong. Dick had ditched him for Gregory. They'd framed it to get him out of the way. Well, it was a cinch he wouldn't butt in. His reflections were cut short by the sight of a white figure walking toward him.

"Hello, Jack. What's the matter?"

McCoy stared. Dickie Lang was alone.

"I'm looking for Mr. Gregory," he faltered.

"Haven't seen him since he left the house."

The girl was by his side, looking anxiously into his face.

"Anything wrong, Jack?" she asked quickly.

McCoy shook his head.

"No," he said. "I just wanted to talk to him about changing the pack in the morning. Your aunt told me he came back and went to meet you."

Dickie's surprise entered into her voice as she said:

"That's funny. I walked all the way from Swanson's and I didn't meet him."

As she ceased speaking came a sharp remembrance of the two figures battling in the roadway. Could one of them have been Kenneth Gregory? She expressed her fears to McCoy.

McCoy started at once for the hill.

"Go back to the house, Dick," he called back. "I'll go down there and see what's the trouble."

Dickie followed after him.

"I'm going too," she said. "I should have gone back and told Swanson or——"

Her words were interrupted by the sharp report of a gun from over the hill.

McCoy broke into a run.

"Go back," he cried. "Hurry. Get your gun. I'm going on."

Boris looked stupidly into the white face of Kenneth Gregory as he knelt over him. Then he staggered to his feet and looked up and down the road. As the possible consequences of his act began to filter through his consciousness, he jumped to cover in the brush and ran down the ravine in the direction of Russian valley.

When Dickie Lang reached the spot where she had seen the men fighting in the roadway, she found Jack McCoy bending over the sprawling figure of Kenneth Gregory.

"Is he dead?"

McCoy shook his head.

"The bullet went into his side," he said. "He's losing a lot of blood but he's still conscious. Run down to Swanson's and phone for the doctor. Then have Bill come and help me move him."

While McCoy worked to staunch the flow of blood, the girl ran to carry out his orders. Remorse gripped her heart as she raced down the hill. She should have gone to Gregory's aid. She might have done something. At least she could have discovered the identity of his assailant. If she had gone at once for Swanson, he might have arrived in time to prevent the shot.

When she reached the house she roused the Swede and rushed to the telephone, giving hasty instructions to the fisherman to take a couple of oars and a blanket and go at once to McCoy's assistance. After an interminable period of waiting she was able to get in communication with Doctor Kent. Instructing the physician to come at once to the Lang cottage, she hurried away. On her way up the hill she met McCoy and Swanson carrying Gregory on the improvised stretcher.

"Where are you going?" she cried.

The Swede started to explain. His house was closest and they were quite welcome to bring the injured man there.

The girl objected with decisive emphasis.

"I've already told the doctor to come to our house. Aunt Mary is the best nurse in the country. Besides, Bill, you have your hands full to-night with Hulda."

Mascola paused on the threshold of his office at the Red Paint with his key grating in the lock. Then he placed his back to the brick wall and drew his knife as he saw a bulky figure coming toward him.

"Stop where you are," he exclaimed sharply. "What do you want?"

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

"Get out, damn 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 Dickie 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."

Dickie 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.