“We’ll take them alive, too,” Johnny chuckled.
Lawrence was not so sure of this. Hour after hour Blackie Dawson, who had discarded his crutches, entertained them with stories of his adventures with the Orientals.
“They want everything for themselves. They spoiled their own fishing by catching the salmon before they were half grown and canning them right on the ships. Now they want to come over here and do the same, right up there in Bristol Bay.
“They catch our fish and can ’em, then they pop into Seattle or San Francisco and say, ‘See all the fine fish we have canned for you. Come and buy them.’
“Think we’ll do that?” he would storm. “Not on your life! We’ll get ’em. You’ll see.
“But the Shadow,” his voice would drop, “that shadow that passes in the fog. How’s a fellow to catch that? Who can tell? But we’ll get it, too,” he would add, striking the table a lusty blow.
In March he received his appointment as Commander of the Stormy Petrel.
“A swell boat.” He was proud of her. “Come on down with me and we’ll turn her motors over once or twice just to get the rust out of ’em.”
Johnny and Lawrence accepted his invitation. They did far more than turn the motors over. With Lawrence as engineer and Johnny as first mate, they cruised for three days along the Alaskan shores.
On the third day, “Just to get in practice,” as Blackie put it, they hailed a suspicious-looking craft carrying no flag. When the skipper failed to heed Blackie’s command to head around, they sent a ball from their shiny brass cannon over her bow and she promptly hove to.