"Hurrah for you!" ejaculated Clyde. "Same here. And I'm going with you."
"How's that?" questioned George.
"Mr. Clyde offers to put ten thousand dollars into the deal if he can go to Kalvik with us and help run the cannery," explained Emerson.
George looked over the clubman carefully from his curly crown to his slender, high-heeled shoes, then smiled broadly.
"It's up to Mr. Emerson. I'm willing if he is." Whereupon, vastly encouraged, Clyde proceeded to expatiate upon his own surpassing qualifications. While he was speaking, a party of three men approached, and seated themselves at an adjoining table. As they pulled out their chairs, Big George chanced to glance in their direction; then he put down his lemonade glass carefully.
"What's the matter?" Boyd demanded, in a low tone, for the big fellow's face had suddenly gone livid, while his eyes had widened like those of an enraged animal.
"That's him!" George growled, "That's the dirty hound!"
"Sit still!" commanded Fraser; for the fisherman had shoved back from the table and was rising, his hands working hungrily, the cords in his neck standing out rigidly. Seeing the murder-light in his companion's eyes, the speaker leaned forward and thrust the big fellow back into the chair from which he had half lifted himself.
"Don't make a fool of yourself," he cautioned.
Clyde, who had likewise witnessed the giant's remarkable metamorphosis, now inquired its meaning.