“I’m in favor of calling every square mile of Bristol Bay American waters,” Blackie replied.
Red McGee stared at him with sudden approval. “Say!” he roared, “we must be brothers.”
“We ought to run those Orientals off,” Blackie grinned. “We’re here to start just that. That boat of ours may not seem so hot, but she’s got speed and power, three airplane motors in her. Good ones, too. Once we sight an Oriental fishing boat setting nets too close behind the fog they’re coming ashore.”
“To do a lot of explaining.”
“Yes, and for quite a long visit.”
“That’s the talk,” Red McGee stood up. “Here’s hoping the wind drops so you can get there. The fishing hasn’t really started. No foreign boats have been seen. But they’re there. They made a haul last year. We’re sure of that. So why shouldn’t they come back?”
“Why not?” Blackie agreed.
In all of this time neither Johnny nor Lawrence said a word. For all that, they were thinking hard and their young hearts were on fire with a desire to do their bit for the good old U. S. A. and Alaska, their present home.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” said MacGregor, as he joined the party on the porch.
“It will pass,” was Red McGee’s modest reply. “I built it for my wife. She loved these rugged hills and the smell of the sea. She—” his voice faltered. He looked away. “She left us a year and a half ago. But Rusty and I, we—we sort of carry on.