The Shadow Passes

by Roy J. Snell

  CHAPTER X A NEW WORLD

  Next morning Johnny and Blackie Dawson sat on the deck of the _StormyPetrel_. A wild nor'wester was whipping up the ocean spray. Even on theriver well back from the narrow bay, little whitecaps came racing in.

  "No day for going out!" Blackie grumbled. "Pile up on the rocks, that'swhat we'd do."

  "Yes," Johnny agreed. Fact is, he at that moment was not thinking of thesea, but of the quiet Matanuska valley, of the snug home he and hispeople had built there. He wondered in a vague sort of way how far this,his latest venture, would lead him from that home. He was thinking not somuch for himself as for his cousin Lawrence.

  Strange as it might seem, the welcome given them by the people of thecannery had not come up to their expectations. Men had stared at them,had mumbled something under their breath, then gone about their work.

  Work there was to be done, too. There was a pleasant hum of expectancyabout the place. Every motor, machine and conveyor in the place was beinggiven the once-over. Power-boat motors thundered as they went throughtheir testing. Johnny felt a desire to become a part of it all. And yet--

  "Fool sort of thing this rushing off after adventure," he told himself.But, had love of adventure alone brought them this far, hundreds of milesfrom his quiet valley? Love of home was one thing, love of one's countryanother. You didn't--

  His thoughts broke off short. There had come the sound of a loud voice.The _Stormy Petrel_ was anchored on a narrow dock that ran along the sideof a long, low building, the cannery. A window was open. The speaker wasnear. Johnny caught every word. As he listened his ears burned. But whatcould he do? He was on his own boat. People who do not mean to be heardtoo far must speak softly.

  Perhaps the man meant to be heard. There was more than a suggestion ofanger and threat in his voice as he said, "Fine fix we're in! Huh! Herewe are part of the biggest industry in Alaska. Fifteen million dollars ayear. The Orientals start cuttin' in on us. We call for help, forprotection. And what do we get? A lousy tub no bigger than a gill-netboat. And how's she manned, I ask you?"

  A second voice rumbled words that could not be understood.

  "She's manned by a crippled young skipper," the first speaker growled."An old Scotch engineer and two kids. Protection! Bah!" There came agrunt of disgust. "We'll have to take things into our own hands."

  At that a door slammed and they heard no more.

  "Well?" Blackie tried to scare up a grin. It was not a huge success."Kids," he said.

  "We're not quite that," Johnny said quietly. "We _are_ pinch hitters."

  "Sure you are," Blackie agreed. "But I wouldn't trade you for half theso-called men in the regular service.

  "Say, Johnny!" His voice dropped. "Know who that was talking?"

  "No-o."

  "It was Red McGee. He is the union agent that looks after the interestsof these men working in the canneries. They say he's a good man and afighter, but narrow. A--a fighter. Hm'm--" Blackie seemed to play withthe words.

  "Johnny," his whisper sounded like an exploding steam valve. "You _like_to box, don't you?"

  "Nothing I like better," Johnny grinned. "Started when I was six andnever stopped."

  "Red McGee's a boxer," Blackie said. "Off times like this I'm told thesemen up here go in for boxing bouts. Nothing savage, you understand, justa few friendly rounds. And Red's never been beaten by any of them."

  "And I suppose you expect me to trim him, at least to try it?" Johnny'sface was a study.

  "No-o, not just that, only a few friendly rounds. I'd like you torepresent the _Stormy Petrel_."

  "I think I get you," Johnny's lips moved in a quiet smile. "You want thiscrowd to know that I'm not a child."

  "Johnny," Blackie's tone was almost solemn, "it's important. Mightyimportant! If this fishing mob gets started and if they find a ship outthere in Bristol Bay catching fish contrary to law, there's going to betrouble. More trouble than all our diplomats can clear up in a year.

  "There's no getting 'round it, this business has been slighted. But thismuch stands out like your nose--we've got to do what we can. And we can'tdo much if these Alaskans sneer at us.

  "So-o, son," he drawled, "if they give you a chance tonight you step in.And if a chance doesn't open up, I'll open one.

  "Come on," he sprang to his feet. "It's time for chow."

  Passionately fond of boxing as Johnny surely was, he found himselfdreading the encounter Blackie had proposed for that night. Why? He couldnot have told.

  A strange audience awaited him in the long, low-ceilinged room where, onworking days cases of salmon were stored for shipping. Seated on emptypacking boxes, the men formed a hollow circle. This circle was to be thering for the evening's entertainment.

  "They're all here," Blackie grinned. "A dozen nationalities: Italians,Finlanders, Swedes, down-east Yankees, an Eskimo or two and what haveyou.

  "One thing they've got in common," his voice rang true, "they're allAlaskans at heart. Hard fighters, straight shooters, they look you squarein the eye and treat you fair. But when anyone tries any dirty,underhanded work, you'll see sparks fly."

  "Well," Johnny smiled. "Whatever else happens, there will be no crookedwork tonight. I don't fight that way."

  "Don't I know it?" Blackie agreed.

  "Well, now, here we are," he chuckled a moment later. "Reserved seats.Box seats, mind you. Who could ask for more?"

  As Johnny sat, quite silent in his place, watching one short three-roundmatch after another being fought in a good-natured rough-and-tumblefashion between boatmen, cannery workers, carpenters, engineer andblacksmith, he became more and more conscious of one fact--the crowd washolding back its enthusiasm.

  "It's like the preliminary bouts in Madison Square Gardens," he said toBlackie at last. "They seem to be waiting for the one big fight. What'scoming?"

  "Can't you guess?"

  "No-o, I--"

  "It's you and Red McGee. They're waiting for that."

  "What?" Johnny half rose to his feet.

  "Keep your seat." Blackie pulled him down. "Ever hear of the grapevinetelegraph?"

  "Yes, in--in a sort of way."

  "It's the mysterious manner in which news travels up here. These fellowsknow about you. The minute I gave them your name they busted out, 'Thekid that packs a wallop?'"

  "And you--"

  "I said, 'Sure! None other. But does Red McGee know it?'

  "They said, 'Guess he doesn't. He's been in Seattle, just come up.'

  "Then I said, 'Mum's the word. We'll just ask him to give Johnny a fewpointers in boxing.'"

  "And they agreed?" Johnny seemed ready to bolt from the room.

  "Sure. Why not?" Blackie grinned. "It's the grandest way to get in withall of 'em. They like a good joke. So does Red McGee."

  "Even if it's on him?"

  "Even if it's on him. Absolutely."

  "Then he's a real sport," Johnny settled back in his place. "It will be areal joy to box him a few rounds."

  "Okie doke," Blackie seemed relieved. "But, Johnny," he added, "pull yourpunches. Murder isn't legal in Alaska, not south of the Arctic Circle."

  "I only hope Red McGee remembers that," was Johnny's solemn reply.