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Updated: June 11, 2025
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.
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.
But money talks, and we all got to look out for Number One. I reckon none of the boys is honein' to go to work for a furrinor, but we all knows his money's good as yours and that's what counts." "You mean you're going to ditch me for Mascola?" Blagg dropped his eyes to the planks of the wharf before the girl's steady gaze. "We don't aim to ditch nobody," he said awkwardly. "But we got to live.
Sometimes as far as Diablo. And that means trouble. If you've ever been out to that God-forsaken island you'll understand that it takes real men and boats. I have both." Gregory said nothing, but waited for the girl to finish: "I know my game," she concluded, with no spirit of bravado, but merely as if it was only a plain statement of fact. "My men are used to holding their own against Mascola.
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.
Mascola had killed her father and Richard Gregory. His son had gone to bring the Italian to justice. But what could five men do on the island against the hordes of Bandrist and Mascola? Who were the mysterious strangers who had accompanied them from Legonia? The questions crowded close upon one another as they raced through her brain.
His plan of keeping Mascola away from his fishing fleet was nothing more or less than just straight football formation, with an augmented line to withstand the opposing pressure. The Pelican formed the center of the wedge. To her right and left followed the heavy Diesel-motored vessels with the Curlew and Snipe guarding the extreme ends.
Lang's grunt was emphatic and Gregory concluded: "That's why it's up to us to find out what it is. It's hard enough to get the fish as it is without Mascola staking out the water like he owned it and telling us to keep out." For some time the two men leaned together against the engine-house, each keeping his own counsel, each busied with his own thoughts.
He turned to Mascola. "Tell your men to come into the office and get their money," he said. His quiet manner disappointed the Italian boss. He had hoped for a scene. An argument at least. His men expected more of him than this. Gregory had calmly turned his back upon him and was walking away. Mascola could stand no more. "All right, Gregory," he called. "You go ahead and hire a scab crew.
There's only one way to get to the bottom of this thing and that is to beat Mascola at his own game. Make him think that fish are the only thing in the world we care for around Diablo. And while we're fishing over here, keep our eyes open and learn what we can." Before Gregory could reply the silence of the night was broken by the sharp exhaust of a high-speed motor.
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