"There is no use of my taking up your time or mine any further," he said. "My business is my own. And while we're on the subject I'll say that I intend to run it as I please. Neither myself nor my men are seeking trouble with Mascola's foreigners. But I'll tell you here and now that we are prepared to fight, if need be, for what the law says we can have. We want only a square deal, Mr. Rock, and you can take it from me we are going to get it."
Walking out of the bank president's office Gregory observed a familiar figure leaning idly against one of the grated wickets. And though the man was dressed in the extreme of fashion, he had no difficulty in
recognizing him. It was Leo Bandrist, the lord of El Diablo. Gregory returned the islander's nod and hurried to the street. As he walked to the cannery he found it hard to concentrate his thoughts on the problem of raising the desired funds. Rock was a royal old hypocrite. Of that he was sure now. The financier had used his influence among the jobbers to some purpose. He had knocked him through his local paper. And now he was telling him, almost threatening him, to stay away from El Diablo. His mind flashed again to Bandrist. What brought the man to Rock's bank? Business, no doubt. But what kind? Was Rock backing Bandrist? Were the two men in cahoots with Mascola's gang? If so, for what purpose?
The questions multiplied with astonishing rapidity. When Gregory arrived at the cannery he had decided upon a definite course of action. He would wire Farnsworth, the estate's attorney, to sell his bonds at a sacrifice if need be. They should bring enough, added to his own personal account, to pay for the equipment he desired. After that, he'd go to Diablo and call Rock's bluff, whatever it was.
It was late that evening before he received an answer from the lawyer. Farnsworth had regarded the instructions of his client as sheer idiocy and had taken no pains to conceal the fact. But he had sold the bonds and was forwarding the money. Close upon the message from the attorney came one from the ship-chandlers at Port Angeles. They were shipping the gear in the early morning. Gregory heaved two
great sighs of relief which adequately expressed his feelings at the contents of the two respective messages.
The day had ended better than he anticipated. The Pelican and the Curlew were at Diablo by now. He should hear from them any minute. While he was waiting there was much that he could do. He took up his personal bank-book and began to balance it. A low rap at the office-door interrupted him.
Dickie Lang entered with McCoy and Hawkins.
"We've been out for a walk," she announced. "Thought we'd stop in and see if you'd heard anything from the boys yet."
"Not yet," Gregory answered. "I'm going to keep a man at the key all night. We should have heard before this. They got a fairly early start and with good weather should have hit the island in time to get a good line on things before dark. I just got a wire from the ship-chandlers and they are shipping the stuff the first thing in the morning."