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Reaching the stern of Mascola's launch she directed the rays of her light into the rippling waves. Gregory tightened his hold on Mascola's wrist as the waters closed over his head. The Italian struggled fiercely to free his right arm as he felt his body sinking deeper into the water. Then he noticed that his antagonist had freed his legs and was moving them slowly upward to his stomach.
"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."
Shoving a tally-sheet before his eyes, she pointed to the totals. "Not enough there to last him half a day. He's beginning to eat them up. We've got to get more." "But if they ain't runnin', what you going to do?" "Go after them," she snapped. "Mascola's getting fish. He's going out to sea for them. He brought in a good haul yesterday from Diablo.
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."
"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.
Had stumbled on to a small school of albacore off Black Point and started fishing. Mascola's fleet had moved down from Hell-Hole in the early morning. Had "fenced" him. The Italian's men had been drinking freely all day and had refused to give him sea-way to get out. Of Mascola himself he had seen but little. The Italian boss had been down in the morning but had paid little attention to his men.
Gregory studied Mascola's face and his smile faded. His irritation at the Italian's entrance had at first given place to amusement at the absurdity of the man's proposal. Now came again the feeling of dislike which had assailed him on the occasion of his first meeting with Mascola. "Mascola," he said, "I'll keep your proposition in mind.
Blagg's animosity thawed sufficiently to permit him to accept the proffered drink, then flared again under the influence of the fiery liquor. He called for another and gulped it down. Then Mascola's whisky began to talk. He'd make the dago eat his words. That's what he'd do. Two more drinks and he decided to have it out with Mascola at once. "Where's boss?" he inquired thickly.
There he leaned against the bulkhead and looked back at the Red Paint. A flash of light illumined the side-walk in front of the saloon office and Blagg saw Mascola's figure silhouetted in the open doorway. He was looking up and down the street. As the fisherman drew back into the shadow the Italian disappeared to return a moment later shoving a burly figure before him.
But when the cannery fleet got fish while the Italian's boats came in but scantily-laden, Mascola's laugh changed to a scowl and Rock's flabby forehead was creased with worried lines.
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