Three times his heart leaped as a dark bulk loomed before them. Three times he heaved a sigh of disappointment.
“Only one of the gill-net boats returning to the cannery,” was the answer.
“They’re running strong,” was the joyous report of one fisherman. “Full load first trip. Looks like a grand season.”
“Poor luck,” came from the second. “We tried hard. Got only half a load. Have to come in anyway. It’s the rule. Fish must always be fresh.”
The third boat had had even worse luck. It was going back all but empty.
“No new calico dress for Nancy this time,” the youthful skipper groaned.
“No gitta da dress,” his Italian companion agreed.
At last, out of gas, with her crew half-blind from watching, the Stormy Petrel headed for the harbor.
“They’re out there somewhere,” Red McGee insisted, as he met them at the dock. “Must be anchored up north of here somewhere. It’s the boys who go up that way who come back half-empty.
“But the wheels are turning,” he added with a touch of pride. “Ever see a cannery in operation?” he turned to the boys.