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Updated: June 11, 2025
He made haste to repair the trouble and switched on his running lights. The Fuor d'Italia was too light to take chances of roughing it in the dark. As he worked, he heard a voice hail him. "What do you want?" he demanded angrily. "Damn you, you hit my boat." The lights of the returning motor-boat drew alongside before Gregory answered: "Listen, Mascola.
I would like to contract for my men to get them for you." Gregory was nettled by Mascola's calm assurance. He had a mind to send him packing. Blair, he remembered, had evidently had but little use for the Italian. But Blair too might have been prejudiced. It was business perhaps to hear the man's proposal. "What is your proposition?" he asked, hoping Mascola would be brief.
It was worth while to know a man like that. Mascola watched the progress of the burning Florence from the deck of the Lura. His blood-shot eyes gleamed red in the glow from the burning vessel and the lust of destruction surged into his heart. He was losing one of his best boats. Somebody must pay. In the light of the fire he saw the vessels of the defense scattered.
Slade selected his men carefully. When he came to Gregory he said: "Stay with the main body on the beach." It was in Gregory's mind to argue. Slade was throwing him into the discard. What chance would he have of finding Mascola at the main entrance to the cave? The leader of the advance was already marshaling his men about him.
Don't do anything until I tell you." His manner was curt and plainly showed that he was not pleased with the latest addition to the party. But Kenneth Gregory cared little for that. If the Gray Ghost was at the goose-neck, the chances were that Mascola would be in the cave. And Mascola must be given no chance to escape.
Fishing was universally poor. The boats were forced to cruise wide areas in order to supply fish enough for the cannery and Service Market. Areas which placed them beyond reach of the radio and gave Mascola his chance. The Italian struck without warning. Angered by the loss of his prestige, strengthened by his augmented fleet, he began to hector the extreme outposts beyond reach of the wireless.
But before Mascola could circle in the direction of the lights of the fleet, the Richard was again on his rail. Cursing to himself, the Italian advanced his spark and pressed hard on the throttle. But though he gained a few feet on his pursuer, he knew that he dared not try to make the turn. His boat would "turn turtle" or be cut in two by the craft behind.
The shifting bank of blinding mist hung uncertainly above the shimmering waters less than half a mile ahead, dead ahead for Mascola, off Gregory's starboard quarter. For the Italian it meant safety. To his pursuer it spelled defeat. The Richard was gaining. Gregory measured the distance with a calculating eye. He was going to head the Italian off. "Swing her to port. Catch him on the beam."
Gregory were drowned off Diablo, Mascola thought he had us beaten. Rock thought so, too. But I'm telling you we're going to fool them both. There's something wrong around here, boys, when we can't get a fifty-fifty break on our own coast. And we're going to find out what it is." Seeing that she had the ear of the men at last, she walked closer.
Gregory felt the muscles of the Italian relax in a token of submission. For an instant his heart rebelled at the turn of the battle in his favor. Why not strangle Mascola beneath the surface? Who would ever know? The Italian had shown his father no mercy. Why didn't Mascola fight like a man? Gregory's fingers reached the Italian's throat. The law of the sea knew no mercy.
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