"Don't know," replied Hawley, frowning, "but you can bet it ain't for no good purpose. Why, that old rip's so crooked he can't even walk straight. You just leave it to me. I'll find out about it."
Three nights later Hawley sought out Alec after the latter had tumbled into his bed on the Bertha B. "I know what them rips is up to," he said. "They're openin' their rattlers, treatin' 'em over-night in soda, and sellin' 'em in cans."
"They are!" cried Alec. "Selling them as Maurice River Cove oysters?"
"Surest thing you know."
"If they do much of that, they'll knock the oyster business into a cocked hat. Anybody that eats one of those things and sees the label 'Maurice River Cove Oysters,' will never want to taste another."
"Exactly what I reckon," said big Jim Hawley.
"I'll tell the shipper about this at once," said Alec.
He glanced at his watch. "Exactly nine-thirty," he said. "The captain will be listening to Pittsburgh if he's at home."
He turned to his wireless telephone, threw over his switch, and began to speak. "3ADH calling 3ARM," he called. There was no reply. Again he called.
Then his receivers began to vibrate. "3ARM answering 3ADH," came the message.