His thoughts broke off short. There had come the sound of a loud voice. The Stormy Petrel was anchored on a narrow dock that ran along the side of a long, low building, the cannery. A window was open. The speaker was near. Johnny caught every word. As he listened his ears burned. But what could he do? He was on his own boat. People who do not mean to be heard too far must speak softly.
Perhaps the man meant to be heard. There was more than a suggestion of anger and threat in his voice as he said, “Fine fix we’re in! Huh! Here we are part of the biggest industry in Alaska. Fifteen million dollars a year. The Orientals start cuttin’ in on us. We call for help, for protection. And what do we get? A lousy tub no bigger than a gill-net boat. And how’s she manned, I ask you?”
A second voice rumbled words that could not be understood.
“She’s manned by a crippled young skipper,” the first speaker growled. “An old Scotch engineer and two kids. Protection! Bah!” There came a grunt of disgust. “We’ll have to take things into our own hands.”
At that a door slammed and they heard no more.
“Well?” Blackie tried to scare up a grin. It was not a huge success. “Kids,” he said.
“We’re not quite that,” Johnny said quietly. “We are pinch hitters.”
“Sure you are,” Blackie agreed. “But I wouldn’t trade you for half the so-called men in the regular service.
“Say, Johnny!” His voice dropped. “Know who that was talking?”
“No-o.”