by Roy J. Snell
CHAPTER XIII THE SHADOW
"Fog." There was more than a suggestion of disgust in Johnny's tone as hesaid this word. It was the next morning. After a good night's sleepaboard the _Stormy Petrel_ he felt ready for anything. The moment heawoke he had listened for the pounding surf.
"Gone!" He had leaped from his bunk. "Storm's over. Now for a good lookat 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 ofdull, 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 beenleaning 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 andnearly always there is fog.
"Fish are coming in," he added as a cheering note. "Two boats are just infrom a try at the gill-nets. They made a fair catch."
"But this fog," Johnny insisted, "gives those Orientals a chance to slipin close, doesn't it?"
"It does!" Red agreed. "Blast their hides! That floatin' factory oftheirs 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 seethem in the fog. They'd put 'em up early. Three miles of nets.
"Claim they're catchin' crabs. Crabs, me eye!" he exploded. "Crab netsare set on the bottom. Salmon nets are set close to the top. Drift netsare what they use. We've never found one inside the three-mile line, butwe think they've been there all the same.
"If you ever do find one," he turned to Blackie, "take it up and bring itin. We'll can their fish an' boil their nets.
"Shouldn't be any three-mile line," he continued. "All our shore waterbelongs to us. So do the fish. It's food, son! Food for the millions. Andthese Orientals would have had fish on their own shores if they hadn'texterminated them."
"We're going out right now," said Blackie. "Going to have a look for thatshadow that passes in the fog. We've got a nice swivel cannon up thereforward. Don't know whether you can hit a shadow, but it won't do anyharm to try."
"All the same, this _is_ a serious situation," said Blackie as theyheaded out into the fog. "These Alaskans are a strange people. They arelike the men of the old west, the west that's gone forever; fearless menwith 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. Letour little brass messenger swing with the boat."
A moment later, up forward, a small swivel cannon swung from side toside. 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 eyesfor some moving object in that blanket of gray fog. The cold, damp oceanair chilled him to the bone. Stamping his feet, he held doggedly to hispost. When his watch was over he went below to soak in the heat of thestove that George, the colored cook, kept roaring hot. He drank two cupsof scalding black coffee, downed a plate of beans and a whole pan of hotbiscuits, then spread himself out on a cushioned seat to close his eyesand dream.
In those dreams he saw creeping gray shadows, darting fish and a pair oflaughing 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 hoursfrom dark to dawn. By nature a hard driver, inspired by his desire tohelp the Alaskans, Blackie steered his small craft endlessly through thegray murk.
Then--of a sudden Johnny rubbed his eyes--stared away to theright--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 thespot 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 thesea.
Sudden as the movement was, it proved too slow. Like a true shadow, thething 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 itwas 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 letthem know we're after them."
"No! No! Not that!" MacGregor waved him back. "'Speak softly and carry abig stick.' That was Teddy Roosevelt's motto. The grandest president thatever lived. There's time enough to make a noise after we've got 'em underour thumb."
"I--I'm sorry," said Johnny.