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Gregory questioned quickly. Bronson shrugged his shoulders non-committally. "Can't say," he answered. "Don't know how often he goes out there. But I do know that he brags that his boat can make it in two hours and a half. Diablo's a bad place for the Fuor d'Italia. She's built too light to stand the gaff." The ride to Port Angeles proved all too short.
After the War, in 1919, Socialism was already dead as a doctrine: it existed only as a grudge. In Italy especially, it had one only possibility of action: reprisals against those who had wanted the War and must now pay its penalty. The Popolo d'Italia carried as sub-title "daily of ex-service men and producers," and the word producers was already then the expression of a turn of mind.
At the desk in the corner one officer was jotting down notes as to the clearance papers and the cargo; while at a table in the foreground sat his comrade, in a lieutenant's uniform, with the captain of the Re d'Italia at his right, swart-faced and silent, and the list of the passengers lying before the pair.
She jumped to her feet, her eyes glowing with excitement. Even at the distance she could not be deceived. There was only one other craft about with an exhaust like that. Mascola was fleeing from Diablo in the Fuor d'Italia. She sprang to the hood and began pulling on the anchor-chain. Then she stopped suddenly. The man she loved was still on the island. Perhaps he had been wounded. Maybe killed.
Then the islander ceased his labor at the oar abruptly. "Head out," he whispered. "There's a launch ahead." Mascola's eyes sought to pierce the fog where the dim outline of a motor-boat loomed dark across their course. Then he swung the Fuor d'Italia about and skirting the point rowed doggedly away from the darkened stranger. The Italian's ugly temper was not bettered by the physical exercise.
At the same time Meucci described his invention in L'Eco d'Italia, an Italian paper published in this city, and awaited the return of Bendalari. Meucci, however, kept at his experiments with the object of improving his telephone, and several changes of form were the result.
And he recognised the huge livid Banca d'Italia, the green gardens climbing to the Quirinal, and the heaven-soaring pines of the Villa Aldobrandini.
Gregory and Dickie Lang looked up from their scrutiny of the small clock on the Richard's dash and smiled: "Two hours and ten minutes to here," Gregory announced. "We can make it easy in two hours and a half, and we've been bucking a head wind and sea all the way over. If the Fuor d'Italia can do this well, Mascola will certainly have to show me." Bronson smiled but made no comment.
After boarding but one of his boats he had returned with the Fuor d'Italia in the direction of the Hell-Hole Isthmus. He had not been back since. "Is the Curlew still off Northwest Harbor?" inquired Gregory. "Don't know. Haven't tried to reach them. Didn't want to wise these fellows we had anybody else over here.
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."
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