Part 56 (2/2)

”Not this year perhaps, but next. You and Marsh have whipped me this time; but the salmon will come again, and I'll run my plant in spite of h.e.l.l!”

Wayne Wayland made as if to speak, but Boyd went on unheeding: ”You've taken a dislike to me, but your conduct shows that you fear me. You are afraid I'll succeed, and I will.”

”Brave talk!” said the older man. ”But you owe one hundred thousand dollars, and your stockholders will learn of your mismanagement.”

”Your persecution, you mean!” cried the other. ”I can explain. They will wait another year. I will raise more money, and they will stand by me.”

”Perhaps I know more about that than you do.”

Emerson strode toward the desk menacingly, crying, in a quivering voice:

”I warn you to keep your hands off of them. By G.o.d! don't try any of your financial trickery with me, or I'll--”

Wayne Wayland leaped from his chair, his face purple and his eyes flas.h.i.+ng savagely.

”Leave this yacht!” he thundered. ”I won't allow you to insult me; I won't stand your threats. I've got you where I want you, and when the time comes you'll know it. Now, get out!” He stretched forth a great square hand and closed it so fiercely that the fingers cracked. ”I'll crush you--like that!”

Boyd turned and strode from the cabin.

Half-blinded with anger, he stumbled down the ladder to his launch.

”Back to the plant!” he ordered, then gazed with lowering brows and defiant eyes at _The Grande Dame_ as she rested swanlike and serene at her moorings. His anger against Mildred's father destroyed for the time all thought of his disappointment at her own lack of understanding and her cool acceptance of his failure. He saw only that his affairs had reached a final climax where he must bow to the inevitable, or--Big George's parting words came to him--strike one last blow in reprisal. A kind of sickening rage possessed him. He had tried to fight fair against an enemy who knew no scruple, partly that he might win that enemy's respect. Now he was thoroughly beaten and humbled. After all, he was merely an adventurer, without friends of resources. His long struggle had made him the type of man of whom desperate things might be expected. He might as well act the part. Why should he pretend to higher standards than Wayne Wayland or Marsh? George's way was best. By the time he had reached the cannery, he had practically made up his mind.

It was the hour of his darkest despair--the real crisis in his life. There are times when it rests with fate to make a strong man stronger or turn him altogether to evil. Such a man will not accept misfortune tamely. He is the reverse of those who are good through weakness; it is his nature to sin strongly.

But the unexpected happened, and Boyd's black mood vanished in amazement at the sight which met his eyes. Moored to the fish-dock was a lighter awash with a cargo that made him stare and doubt his vision. He had seen his scanty crew of gill-netters return empty-handed with the rising sun, exhausted, disheartened, depleted in numbers; yet there before him were thousands of salmon. They were strewn in a great ma.s.s upon the dock and inside the shed, while from the scow beneath they came in showers as the handlers tossed them upward from their pues. Through the wide doors he saw the backs of the butchers busily at work over their tables, and heard the uproar of his cannery running full for the first time.

Before the launch had touched, he had leaped to the ladder and swung himself upon the dock. He stumbled into the arms of Big George.

”Where--did those--fish come from?” he cried, breathlessly.

”From the trap.” George smiled as he had not smiled in many weeks.

”They've struck in like I knew they would, and they're running now by the thousands. I've fished these waters for years, but I never seen the likes of it. They'll tear that trap to pieces. They're smothering in the pot, tons and tons of 'em, with millions more milling below the leads because they can't get in. It's a sight you'll not see once in a lifetime.”

”That means that we can run the plant--that we'll get all we can use?”

”h.e.l.l! We've got fish enough to run two canneries. They've struck their gait I tell you, and they'll never stop now night or day till they're through. We don't need no gill-netters; what we need is butchers and slimers and handlers. There never was a trap site in the North till this one; I told Willis Marsh that years ago.” He flung out a long, hairy arm, bared half to the shoulder, and waved it exultantly. ”We built this plant to cook forty thousand salmon a day, but I'll bring you three thousand every hour, and you've got to cook 'em. Do you hear?”

”And they couldn't cork us, after all!” Emerson leaned unsteadily against a pile, for his head was whirling.

”No! We'll show that gang what a cannery can do. Marsh's traps will rot where they stand.” Big George shook his tight-clinched fist again. ”We've won, my boy! We've won!”

”Then don't let us stand here talking!” cried Emerson, sharply. ”Hurry!

Hurry!” He turned, and sped up the dock.

He had come into his own at last, and he vowed with tight-shut teeth that no wheel should stop, no belt should slacken, no man should leave his duty till the run had pa.s.sed. At the entrance to the throbbing, clanging building he paused an instant, and with a smile looked toward the yacht floating lazily in the distance. Then, with knees sagging beneath him from weariness, he entered.

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