“It was Red McGee. He is the union agent that looks after the interests of these men working in the canneries. They say he’s a good man and a fighter, but narrow. A—a fighter. Hm’m—” Blackie seemed to play with the words.
“Johnny,” his whisper sounded like an exploding steam valve. “You like to box, don’t you?”
“Nothing I like better,” Johnny grinned. “Started when I was six and never stopped.”
“Red McGee’s a boxer,” Blackie said. “Off times like this I’m told these men up here go in for boxing bouts. Nothing savage, you understand, just a few friendly rounds. And Red’s never been beaten by any of them.”
“And I suppose you expect me to trim him, at least to try it?” Johnny’s face was a study.
“No-o, not just that, only a few friendly rounds. I’d like you to represent the Stormy Petrel.”
“I think I get you,” Johnny’s lips moved in a quiet smile. “You want this crowd to know that I’m not a child.”
“Johnny,” Blackie’s tone was almost solemn, “it’s important. Mighty important! If this fishing mob gets started and if they find a ship out there in Bristol Bay catching fish contrary to law, there’s going to be trouble. More trouble than all our diplomats can clear up in a year.
“There’s no getting ’round it, this business has been slighted. But this much stands out like your nose—we’ve got to do what we can. And we can’t do much if these Alaskans sneer at us.
“So-o, son,” he drawled, “if they give you a chance tonight you step in. And if a chance doesn’t open up, I’ll open one.