The Italian flashed a glance to the cove where the
Roma's angling mast appeared against the beach. Then he looked out to sea and his eyes brightened as the mast of a fishing-boat rounded the point and turned shoreward. It was Ankovitch with the Lura.
His launch rode high on a capping swell and a puff of wind caused him to look anxiously at the beach. The tide was beginning to set in strong and the breeze was freshening. He snapped out his watch and scowled. Whatever was done for the Roma must be done at once.
"What do you want?" he flashed.
"Pay for the fish you stole from my nets. From what I saw in your nets I figure I had all of a ton." She glanced at the fish lying on the deck. "You've got about five hundred here. I'll allow you for that. You pay me the difference at three cents. That will be forty-five dollars."
Mascola glared. His hand crept slowly to his pocket.
"None of that."
The girl's words cut like a knife. The hand which lay in her pocket turned and the coat bulged outward.
"I was getting my money," Mascola growled.
"All right. Face about the other way when you get it."