Did Rusty understand? Who could tell? Burying her hands in foamy suds, she washed dishes furiously. Nor did she speak again for some time.
Meanwhile, over their pipes, Red McGee and Blackie were discussing the task that lay before them.
“I suppose you know all about this Oriental fishing business,” Red suggested.
“I’m not sure that I do know all about it,” was Blackie’s modest reply. “Suppose you tell me.”
“It’s like this,” Red cleared his throat. “There was a time when we thought the salmon supply off these shores was inexhaustible. We caught them in nets and traps just as we pleased.
“Then,” he blew out a cloud of smoke, “there came a time when we woke up to the fact that the whole run of salmon might vanish. You know what that would mean?”
“Yes, I know,” Blackie agreed. “The little man in Hoboken, Omaha and Detroit who hasn’t much pay and has a big family could no longer feed the children on a fifteen-cent can of salmon.”
“Right,” McGee agreed. “More than that, thousands of fine fellows, just such men as you saw tonight, fair-minded, honest men that would,” he paused to chuckle, “that would see one of their best friends knocked cold by a stranger in a fair sparring match and not want to kill him, men like that would be out of a job. Their families would go hungry. You know, about all they understand is salmon catching.”
“And so?” Blackie prompted after a moment’s silence.
“So the government and the canners got together on a conservation program; so many fish to be caught each year, the same number allowed to go up stream and spawn.