The Shadow Passes / A Mystery Story for Boys

The hush that followed was appalling.But the shout that followed!Nothing Johnny had ever before heard even remotely resembled it.Perhaps a gladiator in the Roman Arena, had he returned from the dead, might have recognized it with joy or fear.

In vain did Johnny try to analyze that sound.Was it a cheer?Or was it a curse?Should he be carried out like a football hero or crushed by an infuriated mob?

Strangely enough, as he stood there half paralyzed by the sudden shock of it all, he was conscious of one voice.Above the shout had risen a woman’s scream.And he had not known there was a woman in the place.Who was she?Where had she come from?Why was she here?

“It’s all right, boys,” he heard a big voice boom.“He didn’t aim to do it.He pulled his punch.Twice he did it.He—”

The speaker broke off short.There was a girl at his side, or perhaps a young lady.Johnny was not sure.A round, freckled face and angry eyes, that was all he saw.In another second she would have been at him, tooth and nail.But the big foreman, who had done the talking, wrapped a long arm about her waist as he said, “It’s all right, Rusty.Everything is O.K., child.He didn’t aim to do it.An’ your daddy ain’t hurt none to speak of.It’s what they call a knockout.He’ll be ’round in a twinkle.”

At that the girl hid her face in the foreman’s jacket to murmur fiercely, “The brute!The ugly little brute!”

And Johnny knew she meant him.Because she was a girl, because he had hurt her and he felt miserable, he slipped back into the outer fringe of the milling throng.

CHAPTER XII
A PTARMIGAN FEAST

As Red McGee opened his eyes he found the foreman, Dan Weston and his daughter, Rusty, bending over him.

“Wh-what!”he exclaimed, struggling to a sitting position, “what in the name of—”

“You fell into a fast one, Red.”The foreman laughed.The crowd joined in this laugh but not the girl.Sober of face, she stood looking down at her father.

“Daddy,” she began, “are you—”

“Do you mean to say that kid from the Stormy Petrel put me out?” Red McGee interrupted.

“Well, you went out,” the foreman drawled.“The boy was the only one near you so I reckon—”

He was not allowed to finish for at that Red McGee let out a tremendous roar of laughter.

“Ho!Ho!Ha-ha-ha!”he roared.“That’s one on Red McGee.

“But, boys!” he struggled to his feet. “I want to admit right here. There might be something to that Stormy Petrel crew after all. Give ’em a chance, I say.”

“Sure!Sure!”the crowd boomed.“Give ’em a chance.”

“Where’s that young roughneck?”Red demanded, staring about him.“I want to shake his hand.”

“Here—here he is!”Blackie pushed Johnny forward.

“I—I’m sorry—” Johnny began.

“Young man,” Red McGee broke in, “never apologize.Your enemies don’t deserve it, and your friends don’t demand it.From now on we’re pals.Shake on it.”Their hands met in the clasp of a grizzly and a bear cub.

“What’s more,” Red went on, “the treat’s on me. You’re coming up to dinner with me, all four of you fellows from the Stormy PetrelEver eat ptarmigan pot pie?”

“Never have,” said Johnny.

“Well, you’re going to before this day is ...”

* * * * * * * *

...look into her eyes, he found himself seeing cold, blue-gray circles expressing as near as he could tell, undying hate.

“Of course,” he said to Blackie, “you can’t expect a girl to understand about boxing, with all of its ups and downs.But it does seem she might give a fellow the benefit of the doubt.”

“She will, son.She will,” Blackie reassured him.“Perhaps sooner than you think.”Was this prophesy or a guess?Time would tell.

Rusty McGee was the type of girl any real boy might be proud to call a pal.With an easy smile, a freckled face and a mass of wavy, rust-colored hair, she caught your interest at a glance.The strong, elastic, healthy spring of her whole self kept you looking.

More than once during his visit to the McGee summer home, a stout log cabin nestling among the barren Alaskan hills, Johnny found his eyes following her movements as she glided from room to room.

“Boy, she can cook!”Blackie exclaimed as he set his teeth into the juicy breast of “mountain quail,” as ptarmigan are often called.And Johnny did not disagree.

Since the crew of the Stormy Petrel were her father’s friends, it was evident that Rusty meant to do her best as a hostess. But to Johnny she gave never a smile.

“How she must love that old dad of hers!”Blackie whispered once.Johnny’s only answer was a scowl.

Yes, Johnny was shunned and slighted by this youthful “queen of the canneries,” as she had once been called, but the Stormy Petrel’s engineer, old Hugh MacGregor, came in for more than his full share of interest.

Hugh MacGregor was truly old.His thatch of gray told that.With grandchildren of his own he was just a big-hearted old man.Rusty was not long in sensing that.

When the dinner, a truly grand feast, was over, the others, Blackie, Red McGee, Lawrence and Johnny retired to the glassed-in porch where they might have a look at the barren hills of Alaska and the wide, foam-flecked sweep of Bristol Bay, and, at the same time, talk of fish, Oriental raiders and the sea.

MacGregor remained behind to “help with the dishes.”

“Do you like Alaska?”Rusty asked him.

“Oh, sure I do!”was the old man’s quick response.“I spent a winter much further north than this many years ago.I was quite young then.It was thrilling, truly it was.Cape Prince of Wales on Bering Straits—” his voice trailed off dreamily.

“Way up there?”the girl exclaimed.“What were you doing?”

“Herdin’ reindeer and Eskimo,” he laughed.“I crossed the straits in a skin boat with the Eskimo and lived a while in Russia without a passport.You do things like that when you are young.

“Ah yes,” he sighed, “youth is impulsive, and often wrong.”He was thinking of Johnny.He knew how Johnny felt about things.He had become very fond of the boy.

Did Rusty understand?Who could tell?Burying her hands in foamy suds, she washed dishes furiously.Nor did she speak again for some time.

Meanwhile, over their pipes, Red McGee and Blackie were discussing the task that lay before them.

“I suppose you know all about this Oriental fishing business,” Red suggested.

“I’m not sure that I do know all about it,” was Blackie’s modest reply.“Suppose you tell me.”

“It’s like this,” Red cleared his throat.“There was a time when we thought the salmon supply off these shores was inexhaustible.We caught them in nets and traps just as we pleased.

“Then,” he blew out a cloud of smoke, “there came a time when we woke up to the fact that the whole run of salmon might vanish.You know what that would mean?”

“Yes, I know,” Blackie agreed.“The little man in Hoboken, Omaha and Detroit who hasn’t much pay and has a big family could no longer feed the children on a fifteen-cent can of salmon.”

“Right,” McGee agreed.“More than that, thousands of fine fellows, just such men as you saw tonight, fair-minded, honest men that would,” he paused to chuckle, “that would see one of their best friends knocked cold by a stranger in a fair sparring match and not want to kill him, men like that would be out of a job.Their families would go hungry.You know, about all they understand is salmon catching.”

“And so?”Blackie prompted after a moment’s silence.

“So the government and the canners got together on a conservation program; so many fish to be caught each year, the same number allowed to go up stream and spawn.

“The plan was well worked out.We’ve put the salmon industry on a sound foundation.It will continue so for years unless—”

“These Orientals are allowed to come over here and set three-mile-long nets across the bay,” suggested Blackie.

“That’s just it!”McGee struck the table a resounding blow.“They’re taking advantage of a technicality of international law.And unless we drive them out—”

“Not too loud,” Blackie cautioned.“There goes one of them now.”

“What?”McGee sprang to his feet.A slender, dark-haired person was passing down the path before the cabin.

“No,” he settled back in his place.“He’s not one of ’em.He’s one of our Eskimos.We have three of them down here.It’s a little off their regular beat.But they are keen at locating the runs of salmon.Inherited it from their fathers, I—

“But say!”his voice rose.“He does look like one of those Orientals.”

“Sure he does,” Blackie agreed.

“We might use him for a sort of spy,” McGee’s voice dropped to a whisper.“His name’s Kopkina.Used to work in a restaurant.He picked up the Oriental lingo, at least enough to pass for one of ’em.If some of them come around here, we’ll have Kopkina mix in with them.He might find things out, important facts.”

“It’s a good idea,” Blackie agreed.

“Yes,” MacGregor was saying to Rusty, as he told more of his adventures in the very far north, “it was a bit peculiar goin’ up there like that, livin’ with the Eskimos.And me still a young fellow like Johnny Thompson now.”He shot her a look.She smiled at him in a peculiar way, but said never a word.

“It was the food that was strange,” he went on after a chuckle.“Of course, you can chew polar bear steak if you’ve got uncommon good teeth.Seal steak’s not half-bad and reindeer makes a grand Mulligan stew.”

“Yes, I know,” the girl agreed.“We have some reindeer meat sent down every season.Stay with us and you’ll have a taste of it.”

“We’ll stay, all right,” MacGregor declared.“That’s what we’re here for to stay, hunting Orientals and shadows—shadows.”He repeated the word slowly.“Blackie believes in moving shadows in the fog on the sea.”

“Shadows?”the girl stared at him.

“Sure!He says they glide along across the sea with never a sound.Like some phantom schooner it was,” he said.

“That’s strange.”The girl’s eyes shone.“There was a gill-net fisherman last season told something just like that.He was an Italian, sort of a dreamer.We didn’t believe him.But now—what do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” MacGregor scratched his gray thatch.

“But, Mr. MacGregor,” the girl said after a moment, “didn’t you have a thing to eat except Eskimo food?”

“What?Oh, yes, up there, up there when I was a kid same as Johnny,” MacGregor laughed.“Sure—sure we did.It came on a sailin’ schooner all in cans.

“We had evaporated potatoes and eggs in cans, butter pickled in cans, hot dogs in cans, everything.And the Eskimos,” he threw back his head and laughed.“They’d stand around watchin’ to see what we’d take out of a can next.

“And then we got a phonograph,” he laughed again.

“A phonograph?”Rusty said.

“Sure.First one those little brown boys ever seen.Had a long tin horn to it, that phonograph did.The Eskimos looked at it and tapped the tin horn.They said, ‘Suna una?’ (What is it?)We didn’t tell ’em, so they tapped it some more and said, ‘All same tin can-emuck.’

“Bye and bye we cranked it up and started it going.The record was a white man singin’ ‘Meet me in Saint Louis, Louie.Meet me at the Fair.’

“Well, that was funny!”he chuckled.“The Eskimos just looked and listened for a long time.Then one of them looked at the others and said, ‘Can you beat that!A white man in that tin can!’”

The merry laugh that rang out from the kitchen was heard by those on the porch.Johnny heard it with the others and was glad—glad that that fine girl could laugh even if it wasn’t his joke.

“See that cannery out there?”Red McGee was saying.“Cost a cool million dollars.Paying interest on the investment, too.Also it’s giving two thousand people a living.But these Orientals with their floating canneries—”

“Floating canneries?”Lawrence broke in.

“Sure!That’s what they’ve got.They pick up some big hulk of a ship cheap, install some canning equipment, load on a drove of cheap coolies and steam away.Pretty soon they’re over Bristol Bay, just off the shores of Alaska, but beyond the three-mile limit.Three miles!Bah!”he exploded.

“I’m in favor of calling every square mile of Bristol Bay American waters,” Blackie replied.

Red McGee stared at him with sudden approval.“Say!”he roared, “we must be brothers.”

“We ought to run those Orientals off,” Blackie grinned.“We’re here to start just that.That boat of ours may not seem so hot, but she’s got speed and power, three airplane motors in her.Good ones, too.Once we sight an Oriental fishing boat setting nets too close behind the fog they’re coming ashore.”

“To do a lot of explaining.”

“Yes, and for quite a long visit.”

“That’s the talk,” Red McGee stood up.“Here’s hoping the wind drops so you can get there.The fishing hasn’t really started.No foreign boats have been seen.But they’re there.They made a haul last year.We’re sure of that.So why shouldn’t they come back?”

“Why not?”Blackie agreed.

In all of this time neither Johnny nor Lawrence said a word.For all that, they were thinking hard and their young hearts were on fire with a desire to do their bit for the good old U.S.A.and Alaska, their present home.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” said MacGregor, as he joined the party on the porch.

“It will pass,” was Red McGee’s modest reply.“I built it for my wife.She loved these rugged hills and the smell of the sea.She—” his voice faltered.He looked away.“She left us a year and a half ago.But Rusty and I, we—we sort of carry on.

“But if those Orientals—” his voice rose, “Oh!Well, enough of that for today.It’s good of you fellows to join us in a feast!”

“It’s been swell!”said Blackie.

“Swell!Grand!Mighty keen!”were the impulsive comments of the boys.

“We know each other better,” said Blackie.

“A whole lot better,” Red McGee agreed.

“Goodbye, Rusty,” MacGregor called back through the house.

“Goodbye!Goodbye!Come again soon,” came back in a girlish voice.

“I wonder,” Johnny thought as he took the winding path leading down to the wharf.“Wonder if we’ll ever get to come back here?”

CHAPTER XIII
THE SHADOW

“Fog.” There was more than a suggestion of disgust in Johnny’s tone as he said this word. It was the next morning. After a good night’s sleep aboard the Stormy Petrel he felt ready for anything. The moment he awoke he had listened for the pounding surf.

“Gone!”He had leaped from his bunk.“Storm’s over.Now for a good look at Bristol Bay and perhaps, just perhaps, some of those Orientals.”

“Here’s hoping,” Lawrence agreed.

Yes, the storm was over, but here instead was a damp, chilling blanket of dull, gray fog.

“Can’t see a hundred feet,” he grumbled.

“You’ll get used to that, son.”It was Red McGee who spoke.He had been leaning on the rail talking to Blackie.“‘Men and Fog on the Bering Sea.’That’s the name of a book.And it’s a good name.There are always men and nearly always there is fog.

“Fish are coming in,” he added as a cheering note.“Two boats are just in from a try at the gill-nets.They made a fair catch.”

“But this fog,” Johnny insisted, “gives those Orientals a chance to slip in close, doesn’t it?”

“It does!”Red agreed.“Blast their hides!That floatin’ factory of theirs comes in close to the three-mile limit.Then their other boats, small, fast ones, can come over the line and set nets.You couldn’t see them in the fog.They’d put ’em up early.Three miles of nets.

“Claim they’re catchin’ crabs.Crabs, me eye!”he exploded.“Crab nets are set on the bottom.Salmon nets are set close to the top.Drift nets are what they use.We’ve never found one inside the three-mile line, but we think they’ve been there all the same.

“If you ever do find one,” he turned to Blackie, “take it up and bring it in.We’ll can their fish an’ boil their nets.

“Shouldn’t be any three-mile line,” he continued.“All our shore water belongs to us.So do the fish.It’s food, son!Food for the millions.And these Orientals would have had fish on their own shores if they hadn’t exterminated them.”

“We’re going out right now,” said Blackie.“Going to have a look for that shadow that passes in the fog.We’ve got a nice swivel cannon up there forward.Don’t know whether you can hit a shadow, but it won’t do any harm to try.”

“All the same, this is a serious situation,” said Blackie as they headed out into the fog. “These Alaskans are a strange people. They are like the men of the old west, the west that’s gone forever; fearless men with hearts of gold, fighting devils when they know they’ve been wronged. And this Oriental raiding business is an outrage, providing it’s true.”

“But is it true?”Johnny asked.

“That,” said Blackie, “is what we’re going to find out.

“Johnny,” he said after a moment, “go up forward and remove that box.Let our little brass messenger swing with the boat.”

A moment later, up forward, a small swivel cannon swung from side to side.As it did so it seemed to point, first right, then left.

“This way or that?”Johnny thought.“I wonder which it will be.”

Hour after hour the fog hung on.Hour after hour Johnny squinted his eyes for some moving object in that blanket of gray fog.The cold, damp ocean air chilled him to the bone.Stamping his feet, he held doggedly to his post.When his watch was over he went below to soak in the heat of the stove that George, the colored cook, kept roaring hot.He drank two cups of scalding black coffee, downed a plate of beans and a whole pan of hot biscuits, then spread himself out on a cushioned seat to close his eyes and dream.

In those dreams he saw creeping gray shadows, darting fish and a pair of laughing eyes.The eyes closed.When they opened the face wore a frown.

“Rusty!”he whispered.“Wonder if she’ll ever forgive me?”

All too soon his turn at the watch came.The days were long, twenty hours from dark to dawn.By nature a hard driver, inspired by his desire to help the Alaskans, Blackie steered his small craft endlessly through the gray murk.

Then—of a sudden Johnny rubbed his eyes—stared away to the right—closed his eyes—snapped them open again to whisper hoarsely,

“Blackie!The shadow passes.”

“The shadow!Where?”

The boy’s hand pointed.

“As I live!”Blackie muttered.

A short, slim line, little darker than the fog, moved slowly across the spot where sky and sea should meet.

“Ahoy, there!”Blackie roared.“What boat goes there?”

No answer.

“I’ll show them!” Blackie put out a hand. Three powerful motors roared. The Stormy Petrel lurched forward, all but throwing Johnny into the sea.

Sudden as the movement was, it proved too slow.Like a true shadow, the thing vanished into the murk.

“It—it went down,” Johnny stammered.“Must have been a whale.”

“Or a submarine,” Lawrence suggested.

“It did not go down,” said MacGregor.“It slid away into the fog.And it was not a whale.I’ve seen plenty of whales.They’re never like that.”

“Wait!”Johnny sprang for the cannon.“I’ll give them a shot just to let them know we’re after them.”

“No!No!Not that!”MacGregor waved him back.“‘Speak softly and carry a big stick.’That was Teddy Roosevelt’s motto.The grandest president that ever lived.There’s time enough to make a noise after we’ve got ’em under our thumb.”

“I—I’m sorry,” said Johnny.

CHAPTER XIV
A VOICE IN THE FOG

Forty-eight long hours the Stormy Petrel haunted the gray fog. During far more than his fair share of that time, eyes blinking but tireless, Johnny stood on deck studying the small circle of black waters.

Three times his heart leaped as a dark bulk loomed before them.Three times he heaved a sigh of disappointment.

“Only one of the gill-net boats returning to the cannery,” was the answer.

“They’re running strong,” was the joyous report of one fisherman.“Full load first trip.Looks like a grand season.”

“Poor luck,” came from the second.“We tried hard.Got only half a load.Have to come in anyway.It’s the rule.Fish must always be fresh.”

The third boat had had even worse luck.It was going back all but empty.

“No new calico dress for Nancy this time,” the youthful skipper groaned.

“No gitta da dress,” his Italian companion agreed.

At last, out of gas, with her crew half-blind from watching, the Stormy Petrel headed for the harbor.

“They’re out there somewhere,” Red McGee insisted, as he met them at the dock.“Must be anchored up north of here somewhere.It’s the boys who go up that way who come back half-empty.

“But the wheels are turning,” he added with a touch of pride.“Ever see a cannery in operation?”he turned to the boys.

“No, never have,” was the quick response.

“Rusty,” said Red, turning to his daughter, “how’d you like to show these boys through our plant?”

Did Johnny detect a frown on the girl’s face?If so, it was gone like the shadow of a summer cloud.

“Sure!Come on!”she welcomed.They were away.

Somewhere Johnny had heard that a fish cannery was a place of evil smells and revolting sights.Dirty coolies gouging into half-rotten fish—that was his mental picture.

A surprise awaited him.Not a coolie was in sight.The place smelled as fresh as a May morning.To his ears came the sound of rushing water.

“Where are the coolies?”he asked a man beside a machine.

“This is him,” the man chuckled.“An iron coolie.”

As the two boys watched they saw the machine seize a large salmon, sever its head and tail, remove the scales and fins, clean it and pass it on in a split second.

“Jimminy crickets!”Lawrence exploded.“And I used to think I was the champion fish cleaner!”

Rusty favored him with a gorgeous smile.

When, a little later, Johnny made a try for that same young lady’s smile, the cloud once again passed over her face, but no smile.He was not, however, entirely discouraged.It was, he thought, more as if she could not forgive him than that she did not want to.

“We saw the shadow pass,” Lawrence confided to the girl, as at last they stood before a canning machine.

“Oh!”the girl breathed.“Did you?And what—”

“It vanished into the fog.”

“I have a small motor-boat,” the girl said, in evident excitement. “It’s the Krazy KatI—I’m going out to look for the shadow in the fog.”

“You—you’d better not do that,” Johnny spoke before he thought.“You’d be—” He did not finish.

“I was practically born and raised here.”She spoke to him, as an old-time Alaskan might to a newcomer.

Johnny did not resent it.He had spoken out of turn.And yet he was disturbed.He did not care to think of this fine young creature out there in the fog alone.Supposing she did find the Orientals setting nets.Suppose they found her, alone out there in the fog?

“None of my business,” he told himself fiercely.“Just none at all.”

The Stormy Petrel remained an entire day in port. Blackie spent his time listening to reports from the various fishing grounds. The shores of Bristol Bay are hundreds of miles long. Next time he went out he wanted to go to the right spot, if there were such a spot.

Johnny made the acquaintance of Kopkino, the Eskimo.From him he learned much about salmon, Orientals and the shores of Bristol Bay.And then, just at midnight, he passed the sturdy little man standing beside a dark pathway.There were three little men with him and they were all talking.They were not Eskimos.He was sure of that.But they were Orientals.He had heard enough of the languages to know.

At once his mind was filled with questions.Was Kopkino betraying his employer for Oriental gold, or was he acting as a spy for his big white brother?Who could say?

“He’s an Oriental,” Johnny told himself.“All Eskimos are.But after all—” He came to no conclusion.

Just before dawn the Stormy Petrel crept out into the fog. She was bound for an unannounced destination.

“Action,” Johnny said to Lawrence.“This time we are to have action.I feel it in my bones.”

One thing puzzled Johnny not a little.They were provisioned as if for a long trip, two weeks or more.

Several hours later the Stormy Petrel was once again circling about in the fog.

“Seems like it’ll never end, this fog,” MacGregor said to Johnny.They were on deck working out their watch.“Looks as if nature was on the side of those Orientals.

“Orientals,” he continued musingly, “I don’t suppose they’re much different from the rest of us, only just some of them.”

“Just some of them,” Johnny agreed, giving the wheel a turn.

“Come to think of it,” MacGregor went on, “there are a few white men who are not so honorable.”

“Quite a few,” Johnny agreed.

Truth is, Johnny was dead tired.He wanted nothing quite so much as to crawl into some warm corner and sleep for hours and hours.

“I don’t hate them all the same,” MacGregor squinted his eyes to look through the fog.Then he demanded low, “Hear anything, Johnny?”

“Not a thing.”

“Thought I heard a voice coming out of the fog.”

For some time after that neither spoke.They were listening with all their ears for some sound that might tell them the mysterious moving shadow was about to pass.

“What is this shadow?”Johnny asked himself.“Submarine, some fast, silent craft, or a whale?”

He liked the idea of a submarine.The Orientals had them.Why not use them for laying nets?Easy enough to vanish when danger was near.

“Hate, me lad, is destructive,” the aged man’s voice was solemn as he took up the thread of conversation he had dropped.“Hate destroys you as well as the people you hate.”

He broke off short to cup a hand behind his ear.

“There was a voice,” he insisted in a hoarse whisper.

“Yes, I heard it,” Johnny replied, tense with sudden excitement.

Ten minutes had passed.They were beginning to relax when the sound came again.

“Over to the right,” MacGregor shrilled.“Turn her about quarterin’ them.Give her top speed.”

“Right.”Johnny twisted the wheel.The motors roared.It was a bold step that might have led to disaster.Should there be a boat out there setting nets, and should they crash at that speed, what would it mean?Johnny did not dare to think.

“There!”MacGregor gripped the boy’s arm.

“Oh—ah!”Johnny groaned.“We missed them.”

It was true.Off to the left, for the space of seconds, they saw an unmistakable dark, gray bulk.And then it was gone.

“Our own speed defeated us,” declared MacGregor.“Ah, well, better luck next time.”

“Or worse,” Johnny grumbled.

Had he but known it, it was to be worse, much worse.

“As for me,” MacGregor said a half hour later, resuming his talk, “I don’t hate anybody.It’s not worth while.Sometimes I hate the things they do.Mostly, I try to think of good people and the good things they do.

“And that,” his voice rose, “that’s what I like about this job of ours.If we can drive these Orientals from our shores we’ll be doing good to our own people, a whole lot of ’em.

“Know what I see when I’m tired and I close my eyes?”he asked suddenly.

“No.What?”Johnny grinned good-naturedly.

“Children,” MacGregor said in a mellow tone.“Children playing before an open fire and their mother puttin’ the crust on an apple pie in the kitchen.And those, Johnny, are the children and wives of men way up here scoutin’ around in the cold and fog for salmon.We’re servin’ them, Johnny, or at least we’re trying to.”

Just then Blackie’s head popped up out of the hatch.

“See anything?”he demanded.

“Plenty,” said Johnny.

“Yes, an’ heard ’em,” MacGregor added.

They told Blackie what had happened.

“So you think you heard them?”he asked.

“Think?” MacGregor roared. “We know we heard ’em.”

“Might have been a seal barking to his mate, or mebby a loon.You can’t be sure.Question is, if they’re here, where’s their nets?”Blackie came up on deck.

“Turn the boat north by east,” he said to Johnny.“We’re going in for a rest.”

“Rest?What’s that?”Johnny opened up a grand smile.

“Something we don’t have much of,” said Blackie.“But this fog burns your eyes.You’re no good when you’ve been out too long.

“There’s a cabin on shore if only we can find it,” he explained.“A trapper’s place, snug and warm.Red McGee told me about it.Trapper’s gone south with his furs.We’re to make ourselves at home.”

Make themselves at home they did. After tying the Stormy Petrel up at a narrow dock they helped George up to the cabin with kettles, pans and food supplies. Then, while a jolly wood fire roared in the huge stove made of a steel gasoline barrel, laid on ends, they sprawled out on rustic chairs to sniff the odor of roasting beef and baking pies and to dream dreams.

With his eyes closed, MacGregor was seeing “children and their mothers putting the top crust on apple pies.”In his dream Blackie held a struggling Oriental by the collar of his coat and the seat of his trousers.As for Johnny, he was seeing a round, freckled face all rosy with smiles.Then, to his dismay he was seeing that same face take on a somber look.

“Rusty,” he thought once again.“Will she ever forgive me?”

The feast George had prepared was one fit for a king or even a big league baseball player, and the sleep they had in that cabin resting among the bleak Alaskan hills was the soundest Johnny had known for many a day.Well it was that this should be, for Fate had much in store for him.

CHAPTER XV
A ROAR FROM THE DEEP

“It will be an hour or two before I can get out,” Blackie said next morning, standing up to stretch himself before the fire.“I want to go over some maps Red McGee gave me.Lawrence can draw up a simple chart that will keep us going right.

“MacGregor,” he turned to the aged Scotchman.“How would you like to take Johnny for a circle or two in the fog?You might discover some evidence.It’s nets we want most.If we can discover some of those nets inside the three-mile limit it will help a lot.”

“Like nothin’ better,” said MacGregor.“Come on, Johnny, let’s get goin’.”

MacGregor had spoken for both of them.Johnny was fond of the engineer.He was old, mellow and kind, was MacGregor.This, he had confided to Johnny, was to be his last year with the service.Another twelve months and he would be pensioned.“And, Johnny,” he had added, “I’m as eager as any boy to have a part in something big before I am compelled to go.”

“I hope you can have,” had been Johnny’s heartfelt wish.

So now, with the sun still low and the fog, it seemed, thicker than ever before, they slipped out of the snug little natural harbor into the great unknown that is any sea in time of fog.

Standing at the wheel, Johnny watched the dark circle of water about them.Ever they moved forward, yet never did this circle grow larger.It was strange.

There was life at this circle.Now a whole fleet of eider-ducks, resting on their way north, came drifting into view.With a startled quack-quack they stirred up a great splatter, then went skimming away.

And now a seal with small round head and whiskers like a cat came to the surface to stare at them.

“Not worth much, that fellow,” was MacGregor’s comment.“Not much more hair than a pig.

“But look, Johnny!”his voice rose.“There’s a real fur seal.His hide’s worth a pretty penny.Wouldn’t have it long either, if those Orientals sighted him.We used to have a hot time with ’em over the seals.Had to pay ’em to get ’em to leave the seals alone.That was a shame.Have to do the same with the salmon, like as not.We—

“Look, Johnny!What’s that?”His voice suddenly dropped to a whisper, as if he believed the fog had ears.“Right over to the left, Johnny.Ease ’er over that way.”

“Another seal,” said Johnny.

“It’s no seal,” MacGregor whispered.“Johnny!”His whisper rose.“We got ’em.It’s a net marker.Inside the three-mile limit.An’ it’s none of Red McGee’s net markers either.”

“That—that’s right,” the boy breathed.

“And there’s the floats, Johnny!There they are!”

Sure enough, leading away into the fog was a wavering line of dots.

“We’ll follow it,” was MacGregor’s instant decision.“See how much net there is, then—”

“I’ll follow it,” Johnny agreed.

“Set the boat to go five miles an hour.I’ll time you.”MacGregor pulled out his large, old-fashioned watch.“Now we’ll see.”

For a full ten minutes, in silence, the two of them watched the apparently never-ending line of net floats appear and disappear into the fog.

“Near two miles of it,” MacGregor growled.“And yet no end.No wonder some of our fine boys come in with empty boats.These Orientals, they just find a place outside where the salmon run an’ head ’em off.They—

“Slow up, Johnny!”he warned.“There’s the end.Shut off the motor.”

The motor ceased to purr.Silence hung over the fog.A seal bobbed up his head, then ducked.A large salmon, caught in the net close to the surface, set up a feeble splatter.

“Ease about,” said MacGregor.“I’ll pick up that net with this pike pole.

“Now,” he breathed, leaning far out over the rail, “now I got her.Now—”

He had succeeded in getting his hands on the marker when catastrophe came thundering up at them from the deep. A tremendous explosion sent the water rocketing toward the sky. The prow of the Stormy Petrel rose until it seemed she would go completely over.

Frantically Johnny gripped the wheel to save himself from being plunged into the icy water.But where was MacGregor?

For ten tense seconds the boat stood with prow in air.Then with a slow, sickening swash, she came down.

“MacGregor!”Johnny cried.“What happened?Where are you?”

“Here—here I am!”MacGregor’s voice rose from the sea.

“Johnny!” his voice was hoarse with emotion. “Shove off that life boat. Get her off just any way. There’s a terrible hole in the Stormy’s side. She’ll sink in another minute. For God’s sake, be quick!”

Johnny was quick and strong.If ever his strength stood him in good stead it was now.

The life boat hung over the afterdeck.The knots of ropes that held it in place were wet and stiff with fog.

“No time,” he muttered.With his knife he slashed away the ropes.The boat fell on deck with a thud.It was a heavy steel boat.To his consternation, he saw that it had fallen squarely between the heavy rails.The prow must be lifted.Creeping under it, he put all the strength of his back against it.It rose.

“Now!”he breathed.“Now!And now!”

The boat was on the rail. He could fairly feel the Stormy’s deck sinking beneath him. She was doomed, there was no doubt of that. Those heavy motors would take her down fast.

Once again he heaved.The life boat was now a quarter over the rail, now a third, now half.

Leaping from beneath it, he executed a double movement, a shove and a leap.He was in the life boat.The life boat plunged, all but sank, swayed from side to side, then righted herself.

There was a low, sickening rush of water. Johnny looked. The Stormy was gone. In her place were swirling water and in the swirl an odd collection of articles; a coat, a cap, a pike pole, and MacGregor’s checkerboard.

“MacGregor!”Johnny called hoarsely.“MacGregor!Where are you?”

“Here!Over here!”was the cheering response.“I had to get away.She would have sucked me down.”

Seizing an oar, Johnny began sculling the boat.In a moment he was alongside his companion.A brief struggle and MacGregor, watersoaked and shivering, tumbled into the boat.

“John—Johnny,” his teeth were chattering.“There—there shou-should be d-d-dry clothes in the stern.”

Dragging a half barrel from the prow, Johnny pulled out shirts, underclothing, trousers, socks and shoes.

“Seems you were looking for this,” he chuckled as he watched the plucky old man disrobe himself.

“Johnny,” said MacGregor.“In the Coast Guard service you are always looking for it an’ all too often you’re not disappointed.”

When, a few minutes later, after a brisk rub-down, MacGregor had struggled into dry clothes and had succeeded in lighting his pipe, he said, “Well, me boy, we thought we had ’em an’ now they’ve got us.We’re miles from anywhere in a fog.And that’s bad!Mighty bad.”

“Do you suppose Blackie heard it?”

“What?The explosion?’Tain’t likely.We’re all of four miles from there.Don’t forget, we followed that net two miles.An’ that explosion was muffled by the water.

“An’ if he heard,” he added after a brief pause, “what could he do?He’s four miles away.No compass.An’ no boat except maybe a fishing skiff.No, Johnny,” his voice sounded out solemn on the silent sea.“For once in our lives we are strictly on our own, you and me.

“Well, me lad,” he murmured a moment later.“They got us that time.Attached some sort of bomb to their net, that’s what they did.Safe enough in a way, too, for how you goin’ to prove it was their net?Yes, they got us.But you wait, me lad, we’ll be gettin’ them yet.”

CHAPTER XVI
LOOMING PERIL

Many times in his young life Johnny had been on his own, but never quite like this.

“Not a bit of good to row,” was MacGregor’s decision.“We’ve not the least notion which way to go.If there was a breeze we might row by that.There’s no breeze.”

“No sun, moon or stars, either,” Johnny agreed.

For a full half hour they sat there in silence.Off in the distance a seal barked.Closer at hand an eider-duck quacked to his mate.A sudden scream, close at hand, startled them for an instant.It was followed by a wild laugh.They joined in the merriment.It was only a loon.

There came a wild whir of wings.A flock of wild ducks, flying low and going like the wind, shot past them.

“That’s north,” Johnny exclaimed.“They’re going due north to their nesting place.That’s east,” he pointed.“All we have to do is to row that way.We’ll come to land.”

“If you kept your course, which you couldn’t,” MacGregor chuckled.

“It’s worth trying.Anyway, I’m cold,” Johnny began to row.“There may be other bird flights to set me right.”

There were not, at least not for fifteen minutes.When at last a pair of loons with long necks stretched straight before, passed them, to his disgust, Johnny saw that the boat was headed due north.

“Well,” he sighed, dropping his oars, “At least I—”

“Listen!”MacGregor put up a hand.

Johnny listened.“Say!That’s no seal.”

“Nor a bird either.That’s a human sound.”

“Like someone trying to start a motor.”

“Just that.”

For a time the sound ceased.Then it began again.

“Over to the left.”Once again Johnny took up the oars.This time he rowed slowly, silently.No telling whose motor had stalled.Fisherman, trapper, or Oriental?Who could tell?

Four times the sound ceased.Four times Johnny’s oars rested on the surface of the water.

When, at last, a small, dark spot appeared on the surface of the sea, Johnny fairly ceased to breathe.

“Heck!”said a voice in that fog.

“Doesn’t sound like an Oriental,” Johnny whispered.

“Fisherman nor trapper either,” replied MacGregor.

Leaning even more gently on his oars, Johnny sent his boat gliding forward.Then, of a sudden, he dropped his oars to stare.

“It’s that girl, Rusty,” he whispered hoarsely.

“The same,” MacGregor agreed.

There could be no doubt about it.The girl was bending over to give her flywheel one more turn.Over her boy’s shirt, high boots and knickers she had drawn a suit of greasy coveralls.On her face, besides a look of grim determination, there was a long, black smudge.

“Heck!”she exclaimed once more.

“Havin’ motor trouble?”MacGregor spoke aloud.

The girl started so suddenly that she all but lost her balance.Then, after a brief spell of unbelieving silence, she said, “It’s you, Mr. MacGregor!How glad I am to see you!I’ve been lost for hours.I—I went out to hunt the Shadow, that shadow you know.My motor’s stalled.But now—”

“Now we’re all lost together,” MacGregor chuckled.

To Johnny, the girl gave never a second look.

“Do—do you suppose you could start it?”she said to MacGregor, nodding at her motor.

“No harm to try.At least we’ll come aboard for a cup o’ tea,” MacGregor chuckled.

Johnny rowed the lifeboat alongside the girl’s boat, the Krazy Kat, and they climbed aboard.

“She’s not gittin’ gas,” said MacGregor, after he had turned the motor over twice.

“I know,” the girl’s brow wrinkled.

Without saying a word, Johnny scrambled back to the box covering the gas tank.After lifting the box off, he struck the tank a sharp rap.The tank gave off a hollow sound.

“You might try putting some gas in your tank,” he said with a sly grin.

“Oh, but there must be gas!”the girl exclaimed.“There must be.”

“Perhaps,” said Johnny.“But it’s empty.May be a leak.”Drawing a small flashlight from his pocket, he bent over and examined the offending tank.

“Yep,” he said, “there is a leak, a small hole, but big enough.Your gas is in the bottom of the boat, along with the bilge water.Any reserve supply?”

“Not a bit.”

“Well, then, here we are.”Johnny took a seat.“Now we have two boats and there are three of us.The motor-boat won’t go, but—”

Suddenly he sprang to his feet.“You’d have a compass, wouldn’t you?”

“Ye-es,” the girl replied with evident reluctance, “but it—it’s out of order.That’s why I got lost.”

“Well, anyway,” Johnny said with forced cheerfulness, “now there are three of us.Two’s company and three’s a crowd.I always have liked crowds.Besides,” the corners of his mouth turned up, “you’ve got something of a cabin.”

“Oh, yes.”The girl seemed, for the moment, to forget that she was speaking to one who had knocked her beloved daddy out.“Yes, there is a cabin.There’s a small stove and—and some wood.There’s tea and some pilot biscuits.”

“A stove, wood, tea and pilot biscuits?”Suddenly MacGregor seized her and waltzed her about in a narrow circle.“Rusty, me child, you are an angel.”

A half hour later found them comfortably crowded into Rusty’s small cabin.They were sipping tea and munching hard round crackers.

“The fog’ll lift after a while,” MacGregor rumbled dreamily.“We lost our boat.That’s bad.But there’s marine insurance.That’s good.We’ll have another boat.I wonder,” he paused to meditate, “wonder what Blackie and the others are thinking by now.”

“And doing,” Johnny suggested uneasily.

“Yes, and doin’,” MacGregor agreed.

A half hour later, growing restless, Johnny crept from his corner, opened the cabin door and disappeared up the narrow hatch.

Ten seconds later he poked his head into the door to exclaim in a low, tense voice, “MacGregor, come up here quick.”

MacGregor came.The girl came too.For a full half minute the three of them stood there speechless.They were looking up and away.Their eyes were wide and staring.

“MacGregor,” Johnny asked, “what is it?”

“A ship,” MacGregor whispered.“A thunderin’ big ship.She’s not two hundred leagues away.She’s not movin’, just driftin’.That’s how she came close to us.”

“Wha-what ship is she?”

“Who knows, son?But I’d lay a bet I could guess the country she came from.”

“So—so could I.”Johnny’s throat was dry.

“We—we,” Rusty pulled her old sou’wester down hard on her head, “we’d better get into the life boat and row away. It—it doesn’t matter about the Krazy KatIt really doesn’t.”She swallowed hard.

“We can try it,” MacGregor agreed.“But I’m afraid it’s too late.

“Well,” he added with a low, rumbling laugh.“We were lookin’ for ’em.Now we found ’em, we don’t want ’em.Come on, an’ mind you, never a sound!”

CHAPTER XVII
TRAPPED

“It’s no use.We’re in for it.”Five minutes later MacGregor dropped his oars.From some spot close to that dark bulk against the sky had come the throb of a motor.

“Rusty, me child,” the old man’s voice was very gentle.“Be sure those golden locks of yours are well tucked in.Whatever you do, don’t remove that sou’wester.For the present you are a boy.You must not forget.”

“I—I won’t forget.”Rusty’s fingers were busy with her hair.

“I only hope,” the old man added soberly, “that my guess is wrong.”

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when a smart little motor boat, bright with red and white paint, hove into view.And on the deck, scarcely less smart in brass buttons and braid, stood a small man with slanting eyes.

Those eyes appeared a trifle startled at sight of MacGregor.“A thousand pardons.”The little man’s voice was smooth as oil.“What is that which you wish?”

“Only a few gallons of gasoline,” said MacGregor.

The lightning change on the little man’s face was startling.It was as if a dagger had suddenly flashed from his belt, yet his tone was smooth as before.

“Ah!You are out of gas?Very unfortunate.Your line, please.We shall escort you to our ship.”

“But we don’t want to go to your ship,” MacGregor protested.“All we want is gas.”

“Ah, yes, a thousand apologies.But here there is no gasoline, only at the ship.Your line, please.”

“Say, you—” Johnny’s angry voice was stopped by a heavy pressure on his arm.

“Give him our line, son,” said MacGregor.

Grudgingly Johnny obeyed.A moment later, with the two boats in tow, the bright, little craft went rolling back toward that broad, black bulk.

“It’s no use to quarrel with ’em,” MacGregor said in a sober whisper.“We’ve fallen into their hands.I think that chap recognized me.I’ve been along the Pacific waterfronts for many years.So have these Orientals.”

“But—but what will happen?”Rusty asked.

“Who knows?”was MacGregor’s sober reply.“Let us hope for the best.They’ll not let us go now.When they’re well beyond the three-mile limit they may give us gas and let us go.

“In the meantime, Rusty,” he warned, “don’t forget you’re a boy.It’s a good thing you’ve got on knickers instead of a dress.”

They were brought alongside.A ladder was let down.They climbed aboard.There they were ushered before one more small man who wore even more brass and braid.Johnny thought with a touch of humor that he would make a very fine monkey if only he had a cap, a tin cup and a string.

When MacGregor requested that they be given gasoline and allowed to leave, there were excuses, very profuse and polite, but quite formal.There were reasons, very unfortunate reasons; too much fog, a storm coming up, too few men to spare even one or two, to find the way alone quite impossible.Oh, quite!

The man, who beyond doubt was the captain, talked on and on.

It all ended by the Krazy Kat’s being hoisted on board, by the little party drinking very black and very hot tea with the much adorned captain, and at last by their being escorted, for all the world as if they were embarking on a long voyage, to a pair of staterooms on the second deck.

For a time after the stateroom doors had been closed the surprised trio stood staring first at one another and then at their surroundings.

The two staterooms were joined by a door.There were two berths in each stateroom.There were round portholes, no other windows.

“That will be your stateroom, Rusty,” MacGregor opened the door to the one beyond.“Keep your outside door locked.

“One thing more,” hesitatingly he produced a pair of scissors, “I always carry them,” he explained.“A man doesn’t live everywhere as I have done, not in Alaska, without learning to cut hair.I’m a fair hand at it.Rusty, me child, those rusty red locks of yours have got to come off.”

Without a word the girl dropped to a stool beside the berth.

“Johnny,” said MacGregor, “I suggest that you step outside and stand guard.Don’t leave the door, not more than three steps.If anyone comes near, make some noise on the door.”

“Right,” said Johnny.

“Rusty,” said MacGregor, “do you ever box?”

“Oh yes, often.”The girl’s face flushed.“Often.Daddy and I box by the hour.”She gave Johnny a strange, fleeting look.

“Good!”MacGregor exclaimed low.“Tonight we’ll have an exhibition match, just you and Johnny.Two boys showing these Orientals how to play.

“And now,” he nodded his head toward the door.

Johnny opened it ever so softly, peered through the crack, and was gone.

At the same moment the old man lifted the shabby sou’wester from the mass of lovely hair, blew on his scissors, heaved a heavy sigh, then slashed with apparent ruthlessness at a great handful of perfectly natural, copper-colored curls.

A half hour later the door opened a crack.

Taking the cue, Johnny stepped inside.He stopped short when he looked at Rusty.

It was with the greatest difficulty that he suppressed a smile at what he saw.The sou’wester was no longer needed.Good old MacGregor had done his work well.Rusty’s hair looked like a real boy’s.

“What a grand boy!”Johnny thought.And after that, “What a perfect brick of a girl she is!”

“Mac,” he said a moment later, “there are twenty thousand fine big red salmon up forward.I stepped around a hatchway far enough to see.”

“Twenty thousand,” the old man murmured.“Our boys get fourteen cents apiece just for catchin’ ’em.Twenty-eight hundred dollars.A grand livin’ for two happy families.And that’s the first haul.There’ll be many another unless someone stops ’em.

“And we won’t stop ’em,” he added with a touch of sadness.“Not just yet.But you wait!”he sprang to his feet.“We’ll get a break yet.”

CHAPTER XVIII
FIVE ROUNDS AND A FRIEND

It may seem a little strange that MacGregor and his young companions accepted the whole situation so calmly.Yet the old man had lived long and in many places.He was wise in the ways of the world.He realized that they had already seen too much to be released at once.How long would they be detained?To this question he could form no answer.Perhaps until the end of the legal fishing season, twenty or more days away.Perhaps longer.They might even be taken to the Orient.After that some fantastic story might be told of their being picked up adrift on the high seas.

Johnny was thinking along these same lines.But he, unlike MacGregor, was already laying plans for escape.For the present, however, he was willing to bide his time.

Dinner was brought to them by a smiling little brown man.It was not a bad meal, as meals go on the sea—boiled rice, baked salmon and tea.

When it was over, MacGregor slipped out into the gathering night.While he was gone not a word was spoken.Johnny was busy with his own thoughts.So, he supposed, was the girl who now looked so very much like a boy.

He was thinking, “I wonder if there were shadows passing us in the fog.Or did we imagine them?”Certainly he had seen nothing resembling a shadow here.And this girl.Would she forgive him?Well enough he knew that in trying times such as these people were either drawn closer together or driven farther apart.He could only wait and see.

“There’s hope in the airplane that young Dan MacMillan is bringing up,” he thought with fresh courage.“If only he’d arrive and fly over this ship we’d manage somehow to signal him and then the whole navy would be on this old freighter’s heels.”

He was thinking now of something told to him in secret by Red McGee.He had been speaking of the cannery.It had been built by old Chad MacMillan.A crusty, honest, fair-dealing man, he had managed it for many years.

“Then he died,” Red had gone on, “and young Dan MacMillan, just out of university and full of big ideas, inherited it.This winter I suggested that he hire a seaplane to go out scouting for these Oriental robbers.

“‘It’s a fine idea,’ he said to me.‘A grand idea.I’ll buy a seaplane and learn to pilot it.You’ll be seeing me up there scouting around as soon as the salmon season opens.’

“That’s what he said to me,” Red McGee had drawn in a deep breath.“These wild young millionaires!What can you expect?He’s not here now and like as not won’t show up at all.”

“What can you expect?”Johnny was thinking over his words now.“If only Dan MacMillan showed up over this old craft all these little brown men would be scared out of their skins.”

But would he come?He dared not so much as hope.

He wondered about Lawrence and Blackie.He suffered a pang because of Lawrence.What a shame that he had dragged the boy up here!He would be far better off in Matanuska valley planting turnips and potatoes, hunting wild geese, and, perhaps, catching a glacier bear way back in the mountains.

But here was MacGregor.And he carried in his hands, of all things, two pairs of boxing gloves.Johnny had wondered where they were to come from, but now here they were.

“These little brown boys go in strong for boxing,” the old man explained.

“I told them,” continued MacGregor, “that you were one of America’s most promising young boxers, but a little out of training.”

“Quite a little,” Johnny agreed.

“I said you and your boy pal would put on an exhibition match on deck tonight.”

Rusty shot him a look, but said never a word.

“I hope you understand,” the old man said soberly, “that I am asking you to do this for your own good.”He was talking to Rusty.

She bowed gravely.Then, of a sudden, her face brightened.“I hope they take us lightly,” she said.“That may give us a chance to escape.”

“That’s what it will,” MacGregor agreed.“And this boxin’ stunt is just the thing to put them off their guard.”

A half hour later, beneath a brilliant electric light, with a circle of dark faces about them, Johnny and Rusty shook hands for the first time in their lives, then drew on the gloves.

Johnny had boxed strange people in many an out-of-the-way place.Never before had he boxed with a girl.He was not sure he was going to like it now.But with MacGregor as manager of the strange affair, there was no turning back.

It was strange, there was no getting around that. A swaying light, a host of sober, brown faces, the gray fog hanging over all, made it seem fantastic indeed.

There were to be five short rounds with MacGregor keeping time.

At the very beginning, Johnny discovered that his opponent was fast and skillful.Having no sons, Red McGee had taken it upon himself to train his daughter in the manly art of boxing.Life on the bleak Alaskan shore was often dull.The girl had welcomed each new lesson.And now Johnny was discovering that her punches that from time to time reached his cheek or chin, were far from love pats.They really stung, nor, try as he would, could he entirely escape them.

“She’s taking it out on me because of her father,” he thought grimly.“Well, I can take it.”

What did the audience think of this affair?Who could tell?They watched in silence.Once when Rusty was tossed into their midst they helped her to her feet and pushed her into place.Their movements were so gentle, the flitting smiles about their lips so friendly, that, for the moment, the girl forgot her role and said, “Thank you.”

The rounds passed speedily.When the fourth and last was up, Johnny said in a whisper, “Come on, Rusty, let’s make this one snappy.Give them a real show.”

Snappy it was.From the moment MacGregor gave them the signal they whipped into it with a wild swinging of gloves.Rusty’s footwork was perfect.Johnny found himself admiring the manner in which, hornet-like, she leaped at him for a sharp, stinging blow, then faded away.

Perhaps he was admiring her too much.However that might be, in the last thirty seconds of the bout he stepped into something.Trying for a bit of reprisal in the way of a tap on her chin, he left an opening far too wide.Rusty’s eyes opened wide, her stout right arm shot out and up.It took Johnny squarely under the chin and, “believe it or not,” he went down and out like a match.

He was not out long, perhaps eight seconds.When at last his stubborn eyelids opened he found himself looking at a circle of grinning brown men and at Rusty who stood staring at him, but not smiling at all.

“Well,” he laughed, “that must square the McGee’s with Johnny Thompson.”

“John—Johnny, please!”she cried.“I didn’t mean to.I truly didn’t.”

“All right.”Johnny sprang to his feet.“Shake on it.Let’s always be friends.”

The girl made no response.There was no need.She did clasp his hand in a grip that was friendly and strong.

A half hour later they were having one more cup of tea in their staterooms and Johnny was thinking, “Life surely is strange.I wonder how this affair will end.”

Before he fell asleep he went over it all again.Blackie and Lawrence, the silent, moving shadow, the hard-working men on shore, the airplane that might come.When he was too far gone in sleep to think clearly he fancied that he felt the ship’s propeller vibrating, that the ship was on the move.He was not sure.After all, what did it matter?There was nothing he could do about it.And so, he fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER XIX
ORDERED BELOW

Back in the trapper’s cabin Blackie was in a rage.He stormed at the Orientals, at MacGregor, then at himself.From time to time he rushed out on the small dock in a vain attempt to pierce the thick fog and to listen with all his ears.

“The robbers have got them,” he muttered. “I should have known. That shadow! It’s done for them and for the Stormy Petrel.”

As night came on he settled down to sober thinking.“There’s a fishing skiff out there by the dock,” he said to Lawrence.“We’ll have to put it in the water and make a try for the mainland.This cabin is on an island.Mainland must be thirty miles away.We’ll make it.We’ll find some sort of power boat.And then, by thunder!Things will get to popping!”

Lawrence, too, was disturbed in his own quiet way.He knew a great deal about Johnny.Many a time Johnny had been in a tight spot.Always, somehow, he had come out safely.MacGregor was old and wise.And, after all, this was not a time of war.Why need one worry too much?

There were a number of tattered books on the shelf in the corner.Evidently this trapper was something of a naturalist, for five of these were about animals and birds.In browsing through these, the boy made a real find, a picture of a glacier bear, a brief description, and the history of the animal as far as known.

It was with the feelings of a real discoverer that he read those words over and over.When he had finished he said to himself, “If ever I see one of those bears I’ll know him.”

But would he?At the present moment those bears seemed as far away as the moon.And yet, who could tell?

At dawn next morning the three of them, George, the cook, Blackie and Lawrence, carried their few supplies down to the dock, tacked a note on the door, climbed into the broad, clumsy skiff and rowed into the fog.

“We’ll follow the shore as far as we can,” said Blackie.“We’ll have to cross a broad stretch of open water, but I think I can manage that with my pocket compass.”

When at last Lawrence saw even the small island disappear from sight, he regretted the circumstances that appeared to make it necessary to leave that comfortable retreat.

When Johnny and his friends came on board that same morning, they found the fog still with them, but it was thinner.There was a suggestion of a breeze in the air.

“Going to clear,” was MacGregor’s prophecy.This, they were soon to discover, did not concern them too much, at least not in the immediate future.

When they had eaten a strange mixture of rice and meat and had gulped down some very bitter coffee, a little man with neither gold nor braid on his uniform came up to them, saluted in a careless manner and said simply, “Come.”

They followed him from one deck to another until they found themselves in a vast place of steam and evil smells.

When their eyes had become accustomed to the light and steam, they saw long rows of men toiling and sweating over apparently endless tables.Before the tables, on a conveyor, thousands of large salmon moved slowly forward.

“No iron coolie here,” Johnny chuckled.“Everything is done by hand.Heads off, tails, fins, all with big knives.”

“Please,” said the little man.He was holding out a long, thin, oilskin coat.Understanding his wish, Johnny put it on.Still wondering, he watched MacGregor and the girl follow his example.

“Please,” said the little man again.“A thousand apologies.”He was holding out three long, sharp knives, at the same time pointing with his other hand at a break in the solid line of salmon workers.

“Why, the dirty little shrimp!”Johnny exploded.“He wants us to go to work.”

“Steady, son,” MacGregor warned.“They understand English.I fancy there are worse places than this on the ship.We have no choice but to obey.”

Johnny muttered, but dropped into place to slash off a large salmon’s head.

He had worked in a rebellious humor for a quarter of an hour when, on looking up, he discovered that Rusty was performing the most disagreeable task in the salmon line.She was cleaning the fish.Shoving past MacGregor, he turned her half about as he muttered low, “You take my place.”

To his great astonishment, he felt the girl whirl back to her place, give him a hard push, then saw her resume her work.

For a space of seconds he stood there stunned.Then he laughed low.The girl was wise, much wiser than he had known.She was supposed to be a boy.Boys were not gallant to one another.She would play the part to the bitter end.Johnny returned to his task.

“Mac,” he was able to whisper at last, “why would they do this to us?”

“You answer,” was the old man’s reply.“Sh-sh—” he warned.“Here comes a big shot, one of the monkeys with gold buttons.”

As he passed the “big shot” smiled suavely at them, but said never a word.

CHAPTER XX
A BATTLE IN THE DARK

Even at lunch time the toiling trio, Rusty, Johnny and MacGregor, were not invited to have their lunch on deck.Instead, they were served, like the coolie with whom they toiled, with great bowls of some mixture that looked like soup.

“Hm,” MacGregor sighed, “fish chowder.And not bad.”

Rusty’s eyes shone.“What a lark!”She laughed outright.“I only wish we had a camera.My crowd down in Seattle won’t believe me.”

Johnny looked at her in surprise and admiration.“Here’s one girl with a spirit that can’t be broken,” he thought.

“Reminds me of a time I was on the Big Diomede Island on Bering Straits,” said MacGregor with a rumble of merriment.“We were cutting up a big walrus.I saw an old woman working over the stomach of that walrus.Know what the walrus lives on?”he demanded.

“Clams,” said Johnny.

“Right.Bright boy,” said MacGregor.“The thing that had happened was this.The walrus had been down to the bottom.He’d ripped up the sand at the bottom of the sea.He’d cracked a lot of clams and had swallowed ’em.He hadn’t digested ’em yet when we shot ’im.Know what that Eskimo woman was doing?”

“Can’t guess.”

“She had a white pan and was savin’ the clams from the walrus’ stomach.And that night,” there came a low rumble from deep down in MacGregor’s throat, “that night we had seal steak and clam chowder for supper.An’ I took seal steak.”

“O-oh,” Johnny breathed.

“Mr. MacGregor,” Rusty said with a gurgle, “you wouldn’t spoil anyone’s dinner, would you?”

“Not for the world,” was the old man’s solemn avowal.

“Listen,” MacGregor held up a hand.“I hear an electric generator going.It’s on this deck.I wonder why?I’m going for a little walk.”

“They’ll chase you back.”

“That’s all they can do.”He was away.

“The ship’s beginning to sway a little,” Johnny said.“Shouldn’t wonder if we’d get a storm.”The girl could not suppress an involuntary shudder.

“Johnny,” she leaned close to speak almost in a whisper.“When we used coolie labor I learned to talk with them a little.I’ve been talking to the coolie who cuts off fish’s heads next to me.He says they expect to have a boatload of fish in a week or ten days.Then they’ll go back to the Orient.”

“And if we go with them?”Johnny breathed.

“I’ve seen pictures of the Orient.”The girl’s eyes were closed.“It’s gorgeous.It truly must be.”

“Do you think we’d get to see anything?”

“Why not?”the girl laughed low.“It’s all there to see.At least they can’t keep us from dreaming.”

“No, they surely cannot.”At that Johnny did some very choice dreaming, all his own.

He was wakened from these dreams by the return of MacGregor.“It’s the strangest thing!”he exclaimed.“I got a look into that place.There’s a huge generator an’ it’s chargin’ batteries.”

“Batteries!”Johnny exclaimed in surprise.

“Sure!Banks and banks of large batteries.”

“When submarines go under water,” Johnny spoke slowly, “they use batteries for power.What do you think?”

“I don’t think,” said MacGregor.“Anyway, here’s our little boss.He wants us to resume our duties as first-class cleaners of sock-eyed salmon.”

As the day wore on Johnny watched Rusty ever more closely.The heavy, unpleasant work, together with the ever-increasing roll of the ship, was telling.He was not surprised that, after the day was over and they were allowed to go to the upper deck, she took his arm to lean on it heavily.

“Johnny, I won’t give up.Please help me not to give up.”

Johnny looked down at her with a reassuring smile.

As they stepped on deck they found themselves looking at a new world.Gone was the fog.In its place was racing blue waters, flecked with foam.

“A storm!”the girl shuddered.

“Just too dark to see land,” Johnny groaned.“If it wasn’t, we might get our location and then—”

“Then what?”she whispered.

“I have some plans.We—”

“Sh—an officer!”she warned.

At the evening meal Rusty ate hard, dry crackers and drank scalding tea.She was still putting up a brave struggle against being sea-sick.

When darkness came they went below.Rusty retired at once.Johnny threw himself, all dressed, upon his berth, but did not sleep.

An hour later a shadowy figure passed him.It was Rusty.She was carrying blankets.Without a sound, he followed her.Arrived on deck, he saw her at the rail.Understanding, he dropped down upon a wooden bench.

After what seemed a long time, she turned and saw him.Swaying as she walked, she came toward him to drop down at his side.She did not say, “I am so sick!”She was too game for that and there was no need.He wrapped her in the blankets.Then they sat there in silence.

The wind was rising steadily.It went whistling through the rigging.Ropes banged and yard-arms swayed.A shadow shot past them, a watch on duty.Lights shone on the blue-black sea.It was a truly wild night.

Of a sudden a form stood before them.Clutching a steel cable, it clung there.

“Thousand pardons,” it hissed.“Cannot stay here.It is forbidden.”

“My friend is sick.We stay.”Johnny felt his anger rising.

“Thousand pardons,” came once more.“Cannot stay.”

“Million pardons,” Johnny half rose.“We stay.”

A hand reached out.It touched Rusty’s shoulder.That was enough.Johnny leaped at the man.They went down in a heap.A second more and Johnny felt a steel clamp about his neck, or so it seemed.

“Jujitsu,” he thought in sudden consternation.Throwing all his strength into an effort to break the man’s grip, he failed.Coughing, trying to breathe, failing, strangling, he felt his strength going when, of a sudden, he caught the sound of a blow, then felt the hated arm relax.Ten seconds more and he was free.

“You—you hit him,” he managed to breathe.“Is he dead?”

“No—no.Watch out!”the girl warned.

Just in time Johnny caught the man.This time, gripping him by collar and trousers, he dragged him from the floor.And then, screaming like some wild thing, the brown man found himself hanging out over an angry sea.

“Johnny, don’t!”The girl’s hand was on his arm.

“Oh, all—all right.”

Swinging the brown man in, he dropped him on the deck.Like a scared rabbit, the intruder went racing off on all fours.

“Now I’ve done it,” Johnny groaned as he dropped back in his place.

“Perhaps,” said Rusty.“Still, you can’t tell.”

CHAPTER XXI
WALL OF GLASS

Rusty was not the only one disturbed by this storm.At the very moment when Johnny was at grips with the Oriental on the ship’s deck, Lawrence, Blackie and George were battling for their very lives.

What had happened?The distance from the trapper’s cabin to shore was, they had discovered, far greater than they had supposed.When at last the fog cleared they found themselves far from any shore on a black and threatening sea.

“Might as well keep headed for the mainland,” was Blackie’s decision.

Head for the mainland they did.After that, for hours, with the storm ever increasing in intensity, they rowed as never before.

The clumsy oars were rough and hard to manage.Lawrence’s hands were soon blistered.Tearing strips from his shirt, he bound them up and rowed on.

Fortune favored them in one thing.They were going with the wind.Had they been forced to face into the storm, their boat would have been swamped at once.As it was, just as darkness began to fall the skiff began to fill.

“Lawrence, you start bailing,” Blackie commanded.“George and I will row.”

“Ya-as, sir, we’ll row.Don’t nebber doubt dat,” George agreed.Then he began to sing,

Lawrence thought with a shudder that he might be there to hear Jordan roll before day dawned.

By constant bailing he was able to keep the skiff from swamping.So, chilled to the bone, hoping against hope, he labored on.

When at last they found themselves near to some shore, his heart failed him.

“Towering rocks,” he groaned.

“There’s a break in those rocks,” said Blackie.“I saw it before dark.We’ll follow along and here’s hoping.”Once more he put his stout shoulders to the oars.

A half hour passed, an hour, two hours.Numb with cold and ready to drop from exhaustion, Lawrence wondered if Blackie could have been wrong.Was there a break in that wall?And then—he saw it.

“There!”he exclaimed.“There it is.Straight ahead!”

He dared not add that it seemed a strange break.Not very deep, it appeared to give off an odd sort of glimmer at its back.

Just as they were ready to enter the gap, a great cloud went over the moon and all was black.

Steering more from instinct than sight, they rowed on.To Lawrence, at that moment, the suspense was all but overpowering.Where were they going?Could they find a landing?What was the end to be?

One thing was encouraging, the waves in this place were not so wild.They no longer dashed into the boat.So with darkness hanging over them they rowed, for what seemed an endless time, but could have been only a few moments, straight on into the unknown.

And then.“Man!Oh, man!What was that?”The boat had crashed into an invisible wall.

Lawrence put out a hand.“Glass!”he exclaimed.“A wall of glass.”

“Not glass, son,” Blackie’s voice was low.“A wall of ice.The end of a glacier.This is a spot where icebergs break off.If one of them had been jarred loose by the bang of our boat—and if they had been sent tumbling by the sound of a voice—man!Oh, man!We would be lost for good and all.”

“Blackie, look!”Lawrence spoke in a hoarse whisper.“A light.”

“It’s a star,” said Blackie.

“A light,” Lawrence insisted.

“Yas, man!A light,” George agreed.

Just then the moon came out, revealing a sloping mountain side.And, close to a shelving beach was a cabin.The light shone from that cabin.

“Oh!Oh!Lord be praised!”George whispered fervently.

Ten minutes later, as they drew their boat up on the beach, the cabin door was thrown open and a man, holding a candle close to his face, peered into the darkness to call, “You all come right on up, whoever you all are.”

“That,” said Lawrence in a surprised whisper, “is Smokey Joe.”

“Smokey Joe, you old bear-cat!”Blackie shouted.

The grizzled prospector let out a dry cackle.“Come on up an’ rest yerself,” he welcomed.“I got a Mulligan on a-cookin’.”

At first Lawrence found it hard to believe that this was really Smokey Joe.“How,” he asked himself, “could he come all this way?”As he studied a faded map on the deserted cabin’s wall, however, he realized that the distance overland was short compared to the way they had traveled by water.

Joe’s Mulligan stew proved a rich repast.He had killed a young caribou two days before.There had been bacon and hardtack in his kit.Besides these, he had found dried beans and seasoning in the cabin.

“Yep,” he agreed, as Blackie complimented him after the meal was over, “hit’s plum grand livin’ when you sort of git the breaks.

“An’ listen,” his voice dropped.“Hit’s plumb quare how things git to a comin’ yer way.Yesterday I found gold.Struck hit rich, you might say.”From a moose-hide sack he tumbled a handful of nuggets.

“Gold!”Blackie exclaimed.

“Yup.Hit’s might nigh pure gold,” the old man agreed.“Nuther thing that’s plumb quare.Hit’s nigh onto that little blue bear’s den.”

“What?”Lawrence started up.“A blue bear!A—a glacier bear?”

“Reckon you might call ’em that,” the old man agreed.

“He’s been a-stayin’ in a sort of cave up thar fer a right smart spell.”

“How—how far is it?”Lawrence asked almost in a whisper.

“Hit—I reckon hit’s—” the old man studied for a moment.“Why, hit’s right about three peaks, a look an’ a right smart.”

“What does that mean?”Blackie asked in a surprised tone.

“Wall, you jest climb one of them thar least mounting peaks,” the old man explained.“Then another, an’ another.”

“Three peaks,” said Blackie.

“Fer startin’,” said Smokey Joe.“Arter that you take a look an’ hit’s a right smart furder than you can see.”

“Perhaps about ten miles,” suggested Blackie after they had had a good laugh, which Smokey Joe took good-naturedly.

“Near on to that,” the old man agreed.

Long after the old man had rolled himself in his blankets and fallen asleep Lawrence and Blackie sat beside the cracked stove talking.

“Blackie,” Lawrence said in a husky voice, “that little blue bear is worth a lot of money.The Professor told us he’d trade us a tractor for one.They’re rare, about the rarest animals on earth.There’s not one in captivity anywhere.”

“That won’t help much,” Blackie grumbled.“If this wind goes down, we’ve got to get out of here at dawn.Something’s happened to Johnny and MacGregor.We’ve got to look for them.”

“Yes,” Lawrence agreed.“But if the wind doesn’t go down?”

“We’ll have to stay here,” said Blackie.“And,” with a low chuckle, “we might go ‘three peaks, a look and a right smart’ looking for your blue-eyed bear.”

CHAPTER XXII
DREAMS

“Johnny,” Rusty’s voice was low, husky with strangely mingled emotions, “when we are back at the cottage, I’ll make a big pan of ice-box cookies.We’ll take them with a big bottle of hot cocoa.We’ll go out on a sunny rock and have a feast.”They were still on the deck of the rolling ship and it was still night.

Rusty’s voice rose.“And such sunshine!Nowhere in the world is it so glorious.”

“All right,” Johnny agreed.“Ice-box cookies, hot chocolate and sunshine.That will be keen.”

“Dreams,” he was thinking.“How often when things are hard, very hard, we dream.”As he closed his eyes now he could see dead salmon in endless rows.He could hear the monotonous drone of brown men and the endless wash-wash of the sea.“How grand at times to dream of other things far away!”he said.“And what a joy to know of other places where we have been gloriously happy.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “that is wonderful. And Johnny,” she went on, “we have a home in Seattle, father and I. It is small, but, oh, so beautiful! Climbing roses and pine trees. There’s a lake before it. There is a dancing pavilion not far away where the boys and girls I know best come. There they swing and sway to bewitching waltz time. Over the Waves, Blue Danube and all the rest. Johnny, will you come sometime and join us there?” Her voice seemed dreamy and far away.

“Yes,” said Johnny.“Some day I’ll come.”

“But first,” he thought savagely, “I’ll see this infernal boat at the bottom of the sea.”

For a time after that they were silent.Once again they heard the beating of ropes against spars, the wail of the wind and the dash of spray on the deck.How was all this to end?

“Rusty,” Johnny said, “I would like to leave you for a while.”

“Why?”

“There’s something I want to do.You know,” he leaned close, speaking in a hoarse whisper, “there’s a hole in the gas tank of your boat.”

“Yes, but—”

“We may get a break.Your boat was put on deck after two others.That means they’ll have to put her in the water before taking the others off.If there was gas in her tank we might slip down to her and get away.”

“But the gas, Johnny?”

“There are two large cans in another boat.I saw them.I—I’m going to plug up that hole in your tank, then try to fill it from the cans.”

“They—they may catch you.”Her voice trembled.

“I’ll take a chance.”He rose without a sound.“I’m off.If I don’t come back, tell good old MacGregor.”

“I—I’ll tell him.”Her whisper was lost in the wind.He was gone.

Creeping along the swaying deck, dodging behind a lifeboat when the watch appeared, scooting forward, then pausing to listen, he at last reached the side of the Krazy Kat

After securing the cans of gasoline, he lifted them to the deck of Rusty’s small boat.Then, with a deft swing, he threw himself after the cans.The deck was wet with fog.Slipping, he went down in a heap, but made no sound.

Feeling about in the dark, he found the tank and the leak.A sharpened splinter of wood stopped the hole.

“Now the gas,” he whispered.This he knew would be most dangerous of all.Cans have a way of gurgling and popping in an alarming manner.The gurgle, he concluded, would not matter.It would not be heard above the roar of the wind and the wash of the sea.But the tinny bangs?Ah, well, he’d have to risk it.

When one can was emptied into the Krazy Kat’s tank, he heaved a sigh of relief. The second was half-emptied when he caught the sound of footsteps.

“The watch!”Consternation seized him.Flattening himself on the deck, he clung to the still gurgling can.

The sound of footsteps ceased.His heart pounded.Was he caught?Seconds seemed minutes.If the can popped he was lost.Ten seconds, twenty, thirty—again the footsteps.Then they grew indistinct in the distance.

“Ah,” the boy breathed.

Just then the all but empty can gave forth a loud bang!

Johnny jumped, then lay flat, listening with all his ears.For at least two full minutes he remained there motionless.The watch did not return.

With great care he lifted the empty cans from the deck of the Krazy Kat to toss them into the foaming sea. Then, stealthily as before, he made his way back to Rusty’s side.

“I—I did it,” he shrilled.“Now for a good break and we’re away.”

“Here—here’s hoping.”She drew her hand from beneath the blankets to grip his own.

“MacGregor, what do you think they’ll do to me?”Johnny asked an hour later.The storm had partially subsided.Rusty was feeling better.They were back in their staterooms. Johnny had told the old man of the night’s adventure.

“It’s my opinion,” said MacGregor, “that you’ll be shot at sunrise.”

“That won’t be so bad,” said Johnny, joining in the joke.

“Not half-bad,” MacGregor agreed.“I mind an Eskimo we shot up there in the far north.He’d killed a white man.The revenue cutter came along an’ the judge tried him.

“When the judge’s decision had been arrived at, they told this Eskimo to stand up.

“Well, sir, he stood there stiff an’ straight as any soldier.He was sure he had been condemned to die and that he was to be shot.They’re a sturdy lot, those Eskimos.

“Well,” MacGregor paused to laugh.“They set a thing up an’ aimed it at the Eskimo.Something clicked.The Eskimo blinked.But nothin’ else happened.

“The white men folded things up and left.But the Eskimo still stood there, not knowin’, I suppose, whether he was dead or alive.

“Know what happened?”he concluded.“He’d been found innocent and they had taken his picture.

“For all I know,” he added, “he’s livin’ still an’ so’ll you be, me boy, forty years from today.

“What can they do?”he demanded.“They don’t dare harm us.”

“I wouldn’t trust them too far,” said Johnny.

“Nor I,” Rusty agreed.

CHAPTER XXIII
IN THE BLUE BEAR’S CAVE

It was with a feeling of great uneasiness that Johnny came on deck next morning.What was to happen?Had that little brown man told the story of their struggle in the night?And if he had?He shuddered.

Yet, strange to say, the day wore on in perfect peace.They were not even asked to go below and clean fish.The reason for this was apparent, the fish on deck had been taken care of.Since the storm was still roaring across the sea, no others could be brought in.During the forenoon two small, motor-driven crafts came close to stand by.

“They belong to this outfit,” MacGregor declared.“They may have salmon below-deck.They’re afraid of the storm.That’s why they don’t come in.

“Ah, well,” he sighed. “We’re here for the day at least. Even if your Krazy Kat was in the water, Rusty, we couldn’t risk her in a storm like this.”

“These Orientals are a queer lot,” Johnny mused.

“Queer’s no name for it, me boy,” said MacGregor.“As for me, I don’t trust ’em.They’re like children, just when they’re makin’ the least noise is when you’re sure they’re up to some mischief.”

Was this true?Johnny shuddered anew, but said never a word.

They discovered during their lunch in their stateroom at noon that there was something vaguely familiar about the brown boy who brought the lunch.Johnny stared at him.But Rusty exclaimed in a whisper, “Kopkina!You here?”

The boy made a motion for silence.“I am spy,” he whispered.“Red McGee good man.Me, I, Red McGee man.

“You listen,” his voice dropped to a whisper.“I tell ’em, that one captain this ship, tell ’em you Red McGee boy.”He nodded to Rusty.“Tell ’em Red McGee mebby plenty mad.Plenty ’fraid Red McGee.They not punish you for fight on deck last night.Must go now.”He disappeared through the door.

“Boy!”Johnny breathed.“I’m feeling better already.”

Two hours later they had added cause for feeling better.Just when the sea was beginning to calm a little they caught the drum of a motor.As Johnny heard it his heart stood still, then leaped.

“A motor,” he breathed.“That’s a powerful motor.If only it’s Dan MacMillan and his seaplane.”

“It is!It is!”Rusty’s voice rose to a high pitch.“There!There it is.See!”

Johnny did see.He pointed it out to MacGregor.They all leaned on the rail watching the seaplane approach.

“If it’s only Dan,” MacGregor breathed.

There came the sound of rushing feet.Apparently every little brown man on the boat had heard those motors.They came swarming onto the deck.

“If it’s Dan MacMillan,” said MacGregor, “there’s sure to be someone with him.”

“They’ll be looking for us,” said Rusty.

“Yes, and we’ll have to find a way to let them know we’re here,” Johnny added.

“That,” said MacGregor, “is going to be hard, with all these.”His glance swept the brown throng.

“Tell you what!”Johnny exclaimed.“Rusty and I might do a little boxing bout.There’s sure to be someone on the plane who knows us.”

“And they’ll recognize you by your actions,” MacGregor agreed.“It’s a capital idea.I’ll go for the gloves.”

And so it happened that, as the seaplane flew over the ship, circled, then dipping low, passed within a hundred feet, those in it witnessed a strange sight—two white youngsters staging a boxing match for the benefit of a host of little brown men, who, truth to tell, gave them scant attention.

“I only hope they recognized us,” said Johnny, throwing his gloves on the deck.

“You and me too,” said Rusty.“Anyway,” she laughed, “that’s one time I didn’t knock you out.”

Whatever impression this little drama may have made upon the occupants of the seaplane, the effect of the appearance of the seaplane on the little brown men was apparent at once.On every face as the seaplane went winging away MacGregor read consternation.

“They’re afraid,” he grumbled low to his young companions.“Down deep in their hearts they are afraid.”

“What will they do now?”Rusty asked anxiously.

“They’re already doin’ it,” said MacGregor, calling attention to the rush and bustle on board.“Puttin’ the ship in shape.It wouldn’t surprise me if they weighed anchor within the hour.And if they do, me lassie,” he added, “you may be lookin’ on them Oriental cities within a week, for they’ll be headin’ straight for home.”

“Oh-o,” Rusty breathed.But she said never a word.

On that same morning in Smokey Joe’s cabin Lawrence was up before the wee small hours had passed.After one good look at the sea, which was still rolling high, he dashed back into the cabin to find Blackie staring at him wide awake.

“Black-Blackie,” he stammered.“I—I hate to disturb you.But—but that blue bear—”

“I know.”Blackie sat up.“Three peaks, a look and a right smart ho, hum.”

“Blackie!It’s terribly important.Just think!A little blue bear.The only one in captivity, if we get him.”

“I know.”Blackie slid out of his bunk.“Get the fire going.Put the coffee pot on.We’ll be off in a half hour.”

“Oh, think—”

“Put the coffee on!”Blackie roared.

After tacking an old shirt to a pole as a signal of distress to any boat that might pass and instructing Smokey Joe to be on the lookout, Blackie drew a rough map, showing where, according to Smokey’s direction, the bear’s cave might be found.After that he led the way over the first “peak.”

These peaks were, they discovered, mere ridges.The distance was, in reality, much shorter than they had thought.

“This is the place,” Lawrence said, an hour and a half later.“It must be.”

“It is,” Blackie agreed.“There are the two scrub spruce trees with Smokey’s blaze on them.”

“And there’s the cave!”Lawrence was greatly excited.

“Not much of a cave,” said Blackie.“Might be quite some bear at that.Wait.”

With a small hatchet he hacked away at a dry spruce knot until he had a pitch-filled torch.This, with the aid of some dry shavings, he lighted.

“Now,” he breathed.“Give me one of the ropes.We’ll have to manage to tangle him up somehow.I’ll lead the way.”

“Al-all right,” Lawrence’s tongue was dry.

The floor of the dark grotto was strewn with pebbles.To walk without making a noise was impossible.

“Wait!Listen!”Lawrence whispered when they had covered some twenty paces.

As they paused, they caught a low hissing sound.

“Snakes,” the boy suggested.

“Not here.Too cold.It’s the bear.Get your rope ready.”

Slowly, cautiously they moved forward.

“There!There are his eyes.”Two balls of fire appeared directly before them.

And then things began to happen.A low snarl was followed by the sound of scattered pebbles.Blackie was hit by the rushing bear and bowled over like a ten pin.But Lawrence, quick as a cat, saw a hairy head, aimed a short swing and let go his rope.

Next instant he was shouting: “Blackie!Quick!Help!I got him!I got him!”

The husky little blue bear dragged them both to the very entrance of the cave.There, panting and tearing at the rope, he paused to glare at them.The rope was drawn tight about his shoulders with one foreleg through the loop.

Blackie, who was both fast and strong, made quick work of what remained to be done.Fifteen minutes later, carrying the live bear slung between them on a pole, they headed for the cabin.

To their great joy, as they neared the cabin, they saw one of Red McGee’s gill-net boats awaiting them in the little bay.Smokey Joe had flagged it down.

After a hasty, “Thank you and goodbye” to Smokey, they tossed their priceless captive into the after cabin of the stout, little motor-boat to head straight away over a rolling sea toward still more adventure, of quite a different nature.

CHAPTER XXIV
OVERTAKING A SHADOW

Once again it was night.The wind had gone down with the sun.The sea was calm.On board the Oriental ship there was a strained air of tense expectancy.

“I can’t understand what’s keepin’ ’em here,” MacGregor said in a low tone to his young companions.“It’s plain that they’re scared stiff of that seaplane.Looks like they’d heave anchor and be away any minute.And if they do—” There was no need to finish.Both Johnny and Rusty knew that this would mean a trip to the Orient under circumstances stranger than any fiction.

“They seem to be waiting for something,” said Johnny.

This was true.All the little brown men not stationed at posts of duty were standing along the rail looking away toward the distant shores that were lost in the night.

“They’ll be back,” MacGregor said, thinking of the men on the seaplane.“Looks like it’s a race against time.But what are they waiting for?”

It was not long until they should know.As they stood there, nerves a-tingle, listening, a distant confusion of noises came to them.

“If there were a war,” said MacGregor, “I’d say it was rifle and machine-gun fire.”

This notion was too fantastic to be seriously considered.But what was it?

Second by second the sound increased in volume.“Can this be what they’re looking for?”Johnny asked.

If so, these little men welcomed it in a strange manner.Short, sharp commands were given.Scores of men went into frenzied action.

“Look!”Rusty gripped Johnny’s arm.“They’re lowering my boat into the water.”

“And it’s got gas in the tank.All ready to turn over and start.If only—”

“That’s motors we’re hearin’,” MacGregor broke in.“A thunderin’ lot of ’em!I shouldn’t wonder—”

“MacGregor,” Rusty seized his arm, “our boat is in the water.They are all crowding the rail again.This may be our chance.”

“So it may,” the old man agreed.“Follow me.Not a sound!”

“I’ll get Kopkina,” offered Johnny.“I just saw him on deck.”

Dodging behind a life-raft Rusty and MacGregor went scurrying along in the dark and Johnny and Kopkina soon joined them.

“It—it’s just here,” Rusty whispered.

“We—we need a rope ladder,” Johnny exclaimed low.

“Here’s one,” came in MacGregor’s cheering voice.“Let her over easy now.”

“Now,” he breathed.“Over you go.”

The speed with which they went down that ladder, all but treading on one another’s fingers, would have done credit to the U.S.Navy.

“Now I’ll cut her loose,” said MacGregor.“All right, Rusty, turn her over.”

The fly-wheel whirled.The splendid motor began a low put-put-put.They were away into the dark.

“They’d have trouble findin’ us,” MacGregor murmured.

“But listen!”Johnny exclaimed.

The sound of many motors had doubled and redoubled.Just as they were about to swing around the prow of the ship, something long, dark and silent shot past them.

“The Shadow!”Johnny exclaimed.

It was true, this was the Shadow.But at last the Shadow was not going to escape.After it thundered a powerful speedboat and as she shot past them the excited trio saw a burst of flames and caught the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun.

This was followed instantly by a wild scream from the Shadow which sounded very much like a sign of surrender.At the same time the sea seemed fairly ablaze with lights from many boats.

Johnny’s head was in a whirl.What was happening?Without knowing why she did it, Rusty seized him by the arm and held him tight while she screamed, “Johnny!It’s wonderful!Wonderful!”

What had happened may be quickly told.When Blackie and his crew failed to return, and Rusty as well, there had been consternation about the cannery.There was little use searching Bristol Bay in a fog.When, however, Dan MacMillan appeared in his seaplane, they went into action.Red McGee climbed into the cockpit and they were away.They had circled for an hour when they sighted the Oriental ship.

As they flew over it Red McGee experienced no difficulty in getting the unusual signals Johnny and Rusty had set up for him.He recognized the boxing forms of both Rusty and Johnny.

Realizing that his daughter would be on board that ship only against her will, he went into a wild rage.He demanded that the seaplane be landed close to the ship and that he be allowed to “tackle the whole lot of ’em single-handed.”

To this young MacMillan, would not consent; for, in the first place, the sea was too rough for a landing and in the second, he was not willing as he later expressed it, “To see a good man commit suicide by tackling a hundred Orientals single-handed.”

He had flown back to their base.By the time they reached the cannery, Red had cooled off.

“I want every last boat gassed up for an emergency run,” he commanded.“Any of you men that have guns, get ’em loaded and ready.There’s a couple o’ whale-guns up at my cabin.You, Pete and Dan, get ’em an’ see that they’re loaded.We’ll show ’em.”

They were about ready for a start when Blackie and his men arrived on the scene.

“Blackie,” Red exploded, “they’ve got Rusty and your boy, Johnny.They’re holdin’ ’em captive.Come on!We’ll start a war!”

For once, Blackie did not say, “No.”After they had turned the small, blue bear loose in a sheet-metal tool-shed he climbed into Dan MacMillan’s speed boat, dragging Red and Lawrence with him, and they were away.

It was this speedboat that had spied the Shadow.They had given it chase and had, as you have seen, at last, after sending a volley of machine-gun bullets across its bow, overhauled it.

The Shadow was the very craft that had been awaited by the Oriental ship.Had it put in an appearance two hours sooner, the ship must surely have weighed anchor and our story might have been much longer.As it was, the Orientals were destined to wait a long, long time before lifting the Shadow on deck, if at all.

While Johnny and Rusty looked and listened, the whole cannery fleet, every small deck bristling with guns, surrounded the ship.

Having overhauled the Shadow, Blackie placed it in charge of another craft, then came gliding in alongside the Krazy Kat

“MacGregor,” he said in a husky voice, “tell me what happened.”MacGregor told him.Hardly had he finished when a small motor launch carrying three little brown officers arrived.The officers were fairly aglow with gold and braid.

“A thousand pardons,” their leader began.He was allowed to go no farther.

“Listen!”Blackie stood up.He was dressed in corduroy trousers and a leather jacket.His face was working strangely.

“Listen,” he repeated.“No apologies, not a thousand, nor even one.I’ll do the talking.”His voice was low.“I know why you’re here.To catch our fish.You sank our boat.You have an hour to get your ship headed out of Bristol Bay.We’ll take that Shadow of yours with us.We caught her lifting nets inside the three-mile limit.That makes her a fair prize.

“As to the sinking of the Stormy Petrel, I shall make a complete report.The matter shall be taken up by our diplomats.

“I might add, for your further information, that a law is now before our Congress making Bristol Bay United States waters, open to our fishermen alone.It will pass.If you care to come back next year we will meet you with three destroyers.

“And now, gentlemen,” he doffed a ragged cap, “I bid you good-night.”

Clicking their heels, without a single apology, the officers saluted, then the power boat lost itself in the shadows.

CHAPTER XXV
“BILL” RETURNS

“Rusty, my child,” said Red McGee, springing aboard the Krazy Kat as soon as the Orientals were gone, “are you all right?”

“Never better,” Rusty laughed.“And never half so excited.I—I’m all right,” she added, “except that I’ll have to grow a new crop of curls.”

“Curls,” Red chuckled.“They’re not very necessary.Not even for a girl.

“Going back with us in the speed boat?”he asked.

“No-o, if you don’t mind,” she hesitated. “We’ve been together so long, the three of us, MacGregor, Johnny, and I, that I—I think we’d like to follow you back in the Krazy Kat.”

“O.K.,” Red agreed.“Kopkina, suppose you come with me.I want to thank you for what you’ve done for us.Now let’s get going.”

Already the Oriental ship that had never been welcome was slipping out into the night.

On the way back Johnny and Rusty spent most of their time studying the stars and the moon.Just what they read there only they will ever know.

The secret of the Shadow was found to be quite simple, as most secrets are.It was a long, low craft without deck, cabins, rails or riggings.Powered by large storage batteries, it was able to slip in close to shore, set a three-mile-long net at night and lift it in the morning.The fish were rushed to other motor-boats outside the three-mile zone and were then carried to the floating cannery.

After installing a gasoline motor, Blackie used the Shadow for sea patrol.No demand for the return of the craft was made.Needless to say, the duties of Blackie, MacGregor, Johnny and Lawrence were exceedingly light for the remainder of the season.

The small blue bear throve on fish-cleanings and other scraps.He was fat and friendly when at last the boys headed for Seward and Matanuska Valley.At Seward they left him in the care of a friend until they could come in a small truck and cart him home.

At the cabin in the valley Johnny and Lawrence were given an uproarious welcome.

One thing surprised them—the Professor was back.“I am waiting for Bill,” he explained.

“Bill!Who’s he?”Lawrence asked.“Oh!”he exclaimed.“He’s the man who built the shelter and left a note saying he was coming back.Let me see—”

“Today,” said the Professor.“And here he is now.”A smiling young giant with a full red beard came tramping down the road.

“Bill, did you get one?”the Professor demanded.

“No,” Bill’s smile faded.“I did my best.I got the head and hide of one, that’s all.Had to kill him, or lose him.I—I’m sorry.”

“A whole year,” the Professor groaned.“And never a bear.”

“A bear!”Johnny exclaimed.“Surely there are bears a-plenty.”

“Not that kind,” the Professor corrected.“I want the kind we talked about once, a glacier bear.Nothing else counts.”

“Oh, a glacier bear!”Lawrence laughed happily.“Is that all you want?I have one coming up on a truck from Seward.It should be here any time.”

“Just like that!”Bill dropped weakly down upon a stump.“A whole year.Ice, snow, blizzards, glaciers, hunger, a whole year.Never a bear.And now this boy calmly says, ‘I’ve got one coming up.’”

“Such,” said the professor, “is the luck of the chase.”

There was time for Bill to satisfy his craving for a “real feed.”Then the truck arrived.

The Professor and Bill gave one look at the little blue glacier bear.Then, for sheer joy, they fell into each other’s arms.

“What do you want for him?”the Professor demanded at last.

“A tractor,” said Lawrence.

“The best in the settlement!”

“The Titan.”

“Agreed and for good measure, a gang plow, a harrow, two drums of gas and three log chains.”

Lawrence could not say a word.He could only stand and stare.All his dreams had come true in a moment.

“I only wish we might do better,” the Professor half apologized.“But we’ve spent a great deal of money in the search.So-o, I—”

“I think,” said Lawrence, “that you’re a very good sport.And—and we thank you.”

Three days later Johnny and Lawrence were in Seward for a day with Blackie when a trim power boat glided up to the dock.

“Hello, Johnny!”came in a girl’s voice.It was Rusty.

“Come on down to Seattle with us,” Red McGee boomed.

“We’ll show you a roarin’ good time, just to celebrate the finest salmon season ever known.”

“What do you say?”Johnny turned to Lawrence.

“You go,” said Lawrence.“I’m a farmer now.I’ve got to stay with my crops, and I’m anxious to get started with the new tractor.”

Johnny went. If there were further adventures awaiting him at the end of that short journey you may find them recorded in a book called, Sign of the Green Arrow

Transcriber’s Notes

• Copyright notice provided as in the original printed text—this e-text is public domain in the country of publication.
• Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.
• In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)
• Marked with ellipses the end of page 129, where the printed edition apparently dropped a page or two from the manuscript.