“No, never have,” was the quick response.
“Rusty,” said Red, turning to his daughter, “how’d you like to show these boys through our plant?”
Did Johnny detect a frown on the girl’s face? If so, it was gone like the shadow of a summer cloud.
“Sure! Come on!” she welcomed. They were away.
Somewhere Johnny had heard that a fish cannery was a place of evil smells and revolting sights. Dirty coolies gouging into half-rotten fish—that was his mental picture.
A surprise awaited him. Not a coolie was in sight. The place smelled as fresh as a May morning. To his ears came the sound of rushing water.
“Where are the coolies?” he asked a man beside a machine.
“This is him,” the man chuckled. “An iron coolie.”
As the two boys watched they saw the machine seize a large salmon, sever its head and tail, remove the scales and fins, clean it and pass it on in a split second.
“Jimminy crickets!” Lawrence exploded. “And I used to think I was the champion fish cleaner!”