"By-the-way," she continued, "have you heard the historic story about the pink salmon?"
He shook his head.
"Well, there was a certain shrewd old cannery-man in Washington State whose catch consisted almost wholly of pink fish. As you know, that variety does not bring as high a price as red salmon, like these. Well, finding that he could not sell his catch, owing to the popular prejudice about color, this man printed a lot of striking can-labels, which read, 'Best Grade Pink Salmon, Warranted not to Turn Red in the Can.' They tell me it worked like a charm."
"No wonder!" Boyd laughed, beginning to feel the tension of his nerves relax at the restfulness of her influence. As usual, he fell at once into the mood she desired for him. He saw that her brows were furrowed and her rosy lips drawn into an unconscious pout as she said, more to herself than to him:
"I wish I were a man. I'd like to engage in a business of this sort, something that would require ingenuity and daring. I'd like to handle big affairs."
"It seems to me that you are in a business of that sort. You are one of us."
"Oh, but you and George are doing it all."
"There is your copper-mine. You surely handled that very cleverly."
Cherry's expression altered, and she shot a quick glance at him as he went on:
"How is it coming along, by-the-way? I haven't heard you mention it lately?"