McCoy admitted the truth of the owner's statement.
"We didn't want to worry you while you were sick," he explained, "but you can see just where we stand. Something has sure gone wrong with the selling end. Dick's getting the fish. I'm canning them. But we can't sell them."
"What's the matter with the Western people?" Gregory asked quickly. "I thought they were strong for us."
McCoy shrugged. "So did I," he answered. "But a few days after you got hurt they quit us cold with no explanation. When we fell down on that first big order of albacore, Winfield & Camby lost interest and I haven't been able to get a flutter out of them since. The other dealers seem to be afraid of us for some reason. They come down and look us over, but that is all."
McCoy scowled at the huge stacks of shining tins and shook his head. "It's got me," he admitted. "We're putting out a first-class article but we can't unload it. I've got a hunch somebody's plugging against us." Noting the worried lines which were finding their way to Gregory's face at his words, he went on hastily:
"I'm sorry to have you come back into such a tangle as this. I did my best but you see I didn't have a minute to get out and take care of the sales."
"Don't say a word, Jack," Gregory interrupted. "You've done more than your part. Every man of
you and every woman too," he added quickly. "I'll never forget it. This part of the game is up to me. I'm feeling fit now. Keen to get going. I want to look things over for a few minutes in the office. Then I'll talk with you again and let you know what I'm going to do first."
A careful examination of his finances convinced Gregory of the seriousness of the situation. There was only one thing to be done. He must visit the jobbers at once.