Never had he seen such a boat. She poised on the waves like a gull, quivering with potential energy, ready for instant flight. From her sharply V-ed bow to her delicately molded stern, every line of the trim craft spoke eloquently of the plan of a master-designer who fashioned her with a single purpose—speed.
"What's the matter I say? You're pulling my nets."
Gregory freed his eyes with an effort from the launch to survey its owner. Mascola turned angrily on the leather cushion and glared at the Petrel's deck.
Dickie Lang walked coolly to the rail. "Sure I'm
pulling your nets," she said. "I've got them all aboard. And that's where they're going to stay until you pay me for the fish your outfit took from my nets."
"I never take your fish. I don't know——"
"Oh, yes you do, Mascola. Boris laid around me and robbed my nets. There's my webbing lying right where I put it out. I caught that crazy Russian of yours with the goods and he lost his head and your boat. He's piled up over there on the beach."
Mascola rose hastily and followed the direction of her arm. In his anger at beholding Dickie taking his nets from the water he had not noticed the wreck of the Roma. A torrent of Italian words burst from his lips. His cheeks purpled and his eyes grew hot with passion. When he controlled himself to speak in English he cried:
"I'll have you arrested for stealing my nets. I'll get a warrant and search your wharf and your house."
"But you won't find your nets." Dickie Lang supplied the words and went on: "Listen, you crook, if you and I don't settle this thing up right now you won't find a piece of your nets big enough to swear what it is. I'm not trying to rob you like you robbed me. I just want what's coming to me. Not a cent more. If you give me that I'll throw your webbing over. If you don't I'll trail them every inch of the way to Legonia and cut them into ribbons with the propeller. It's up to you, Mascola."