“Gone!” He had leaped from his bunk. “Storm’s over. Now for a good look at Bristol Bay and perhaps, just perhaps, some of those Orientals.”
“Here’s hoping,” Lawrence agreed.
Yes, the storm was over, but here instead was a damp, chilling blanket of dull, gray fog.
“Can’t see a hundred feet,” he grumbled.
“You’ll get used to that, son.” It was Red McGee who spoke. He had been leaning on the rail talking to Blackie. “‘Men and Fog on the Bering Sea.’ That’s the name of a book. And it’s a good name. There are always men and nearly always there is fog.
“Fish are coming in,” he added as a cheering note. “Two boats are just in from a try at the gill-nets. They made a fair catch.”
“But this fog,” Johnny insisted, “gives those Orientals a chance to slip in close, doesn’t it?”
“It does!” Red agreed. “Blast their hides! That floatin’ factory of theirs comes in close to the three-mile limit. Then their other boats, small, fast ones, can come over the line and set nets. You couldn’t see them in the fog. They’d put ’em up early. Three miles of nets.
“Claim they’re catchin’ crabs. Crabs, me eye!” he exploded. “Crab nets are set on the bottom. Salmon nets are set close to the top. Drift nets are what they use. We’ve never found one inside the three-mile line, but we think they’ve been there all the same.
“If you ever do find one,” he turned to Blackie, “take it up and bring it in. We’ll can their fish an’ boil their nets.