"Don't want chinook," was the reply; "they have got to go away up the river to spawn and wouldn't be in shape if we tried to use them here. We only raise humpback and dog here, the hatch
eries for chinook and silver salmon are away up the river."
"Run by the State or the Government?" queried the boy.
"Both," was the reply, "and quite a few are managed by commercial fish companies who are as anxious as any one to see that the annual salmon run does not grow smaller. Their living depends upon it."
At his request one of the men commenced scooping up some of the salmon in the pool to see if any of them were ripe, and meantime the foreman—who was still wearing his oilskins—picked up a tin pail, holding it between his knees. In a minute or two the man came in holding a ripe female salmon.
"Now watch," the foreman said to Colin, "and you can see the whole performance."
He seized the salmon by the tail, and all the eggs ran down toward the head. Then, holding the fish head upward, he pressed it slightly, and the eggs ran out from the vent rapidly, striking the bottom of the pan with considerable force. The foreman had hardly got the eggs when his assistant came in with a male salmon, and the same plan was repeated, the milt falling upon the eggs.
Both male and female salmon then were returned to the pool. The eggs and milt were shaken violently from side to side until thoroughly mixed, a little water being added to help the mixture. Then he took the pail to the faucet.
"But you're washing the milt off again!" cried Colin, as the foreman filled the pail with water.
"It's had plenty of time to work," was the answer, and the eggs were poured into a flat pan and washed several times.