El Diablo Part 31

"Is she wide open?" he shrieked.

Bronson directed his gaze to the position of the throttle device and Gregory saw with a gasp of astonishment that the throttle was only half open.

On they sped, the hull rising from the water and hurling itself along the crest of the waves, tossing them to the sides in great clouds of whirling, blinding spray. Could it be possible that the propeller was still in the water?

Suddenly he felt the _Richard_ collapse and drop sullenly into the sea.

The "machine-guns" had ceased firing and Bronson was regarding him with a smile. The boatman's face was crusted with salt and his eyes were twinkling.

"How about it?" he asked. "Do you think Barrows made any mistake?"

When Gregory recovered his breath, he observed: "Yes. I wanted a motor-boat. Not an aeroplane."

Bronson laughed.

"Easier to go through the air than the water," he said. "That's why we made your boat plane. It takes a lot of power to put her on her 'high horse.' But once she's there, she makes her speed on a minimum of horse-power. That's why we bank on the _Richard_ to beat the _Fuor d'Italia_. Your boat is heavier than Mascola's, closer ribbed, but you have more power. We're backing this one against his in any weather and the rougher it is the better it will suit us."

Gregory glowed with satisfaction. The _Richard_ was all boat. He noticed that she did not tremble like Mascola's boat, but did her work in a businesslike way with no ostentation. He admired people like that, and as d.i.c.kie Lang had said and he was beginning to find out, boats were very much like people.

For some time Bronson instructed him in the proper operation of the craft. Then he slowed down and threw up the hood, disclosing two complete multi-cylindered motors.

"Everything's double," he explained. "You can cut it all in or halve it as you please. And if anything goes wrong with one motor you're never hung up. You can always limp in at least."

As they settled down to a good running speed, the talk gradually drifted to Mascola.

"The way things are going now," Bronson observed, "it won't be long before we're building a new boat for Mascola."

"What do you mean by that? Has he seen this one?"

The boatman shook his head.

"You needn't be afraid of that," he answered. "What I meant was that Mascola is hammering the _Fuor d'Italia_ to pieces with his trips to Diablo in that rough water."

"Does Mascola go often to Diablo?" Gregory questioned quickly.

Bronson shrugged his shoulders non-committally.

"Can't say," he answered. "Don't know how often he goes out there. But I do know that he brags that his boat can make it in two hours and a half.

Diablo's a bad place for the _Fuor d'Italia_. She's built too light to stand the gaff."

The ride to Port Angeles proved all too short. Bronson was communicative in the extreme and regaled him of many evidences of Mascola's prosperity, chief among which was the Italian's recent order to a firm of Norwegian boat-builders at Port Angeles of twenty large fishing launches of the most improved pattern. These boats, according to Bronson, were of sufficient tonnage and fuel capacity to enable them to cruise far down into Mexican waters.

As they rounded the light-house point and made for the breakwater, the wind increased, driving a choppy sea before it. Then it was that the _Richard_ rose to the occasion and demonstrated her natural ability to cope with a head-on sea.

Arriving at the munic.i.p.al docks, Gregory promised to call for the boat on the day following and hurried away to attend to his business. He had a real boat all right. Just what he wanted. Now all that remained to be done was to see the jobbers and get a few orders which he could convert into cash to pay for the _Richard_.

With elastic step he set out for the wholesale district imbued with a spirit of rosy optimism. The Western was first on his list. The chances were he would have to go no farther. A short talk with Mr. Eby, the resident manager, convinced him otherwise.

"Can't quite see your quotations, Gregory," that gentleman had crisply maintained. "We have been offered a similar line of goods at fully ten per cent. less."

Gregory was greatly surprised. McCoy, he knew, had figured a bed-rock, cash price and the extreme lowness of the quotation offered the Western was influenced solely by the possibility of a quick sale in straight car lots. And still the man claimed he could beat it.

"Do you mind telling me who is offering you stuff at a lower figure?" he asked.

Mr. Eby hesitated. It was to his interest to stimulate price cutting.

The fact that the figure quoted was below cost was nothing to him. A cutthroat war between two rival canneries might result in still lower quotations which would give him a greater profit.

"Certainly not," he answered. "The figure quoted me was from the Golden Rule Cannery."

Gregory felt his face growing hot under the influence of Mr. Eby's exasperating smile.

"That figure is below cost and you know it," he said bluntly.

The manager continued to smile. "Possibly," he affirmed. "From your view-point. Your cost and theirs may be two different things. Your wage scale is much higher than theirs for one thing, and your system, in my mind, does not make in any way for low costs."

Gregory's anger mounted at the man's tone.

"What do you know about my business?" he asked quickly.

Mr. Eby shrugged.

"It is our business to keep in close touch with our customers," he evaded. "I'm just giving you a friendly tip to do away with some of your more or less impractical ideas, and put your business on a plane with others. You can take it for what it's worth."

Gregory curbed his anger and started for the door.

"My idea is working out all right, Mr. Eby," he said in parting. "And you are going to live to see you've overlooked a good bet."

Eby laughed. "Go to it, young man," he said. "You'll just have to live and learn like the rest of us. When you get down to earth again, come in and see us."

Somewhat taken back by his interview, Gregory sought the other jobbers.

But at every place of business he was met by evasions and superficial excuses. Brown & Brown had heard he had gone out of business on account of ill-health. Possibly they would send a man down when they got straightened out. The Eureka people were overstocked and, on account of shortage of cars, were not buying any more for the present. Davis Incorporated were reorganizing and would do nothing until their plans were completed. Others intimated they would submit bids if he cared to sell at auction and some broached the question of taking his output on consignment. But from no firm did he receive even a conditional order.

The various interviews had a depressing effect upon Gregory's spirits.

Weakened by his illness, he decided to call it a day and tackle the few remaining jobbers on the following morning.

As he sought the hotel he remembered his friend Hawkins, who was working on the _Daily Times_. Bill had been his lieutenant overseas. He was a fighting fool and had always been an optimistic chap. In his present frame of mind, optimism was what he needed. Accordingly he called Hawkins up and invited him to dinner.

Some hours later the two men were conversing in Gregory's room. The great war had been fought over again, mutual acquaintances checked up and the past thoroughly covered.

"And so now you are a full-fledged business man," Hawkins was saying, as the talk turned to the present, surveying Gregory through the haze of his cigarette.

"Yes. And from the way it looks now I'm about due to be plucked by these thieving jobbers."

Hawkins smiled brightly. "Nothing to it," he said. "You've overlooked two big things, that's all. When we get them straightened out, everything will be lovely."

Knowing that Hawkins expected no reply, Gregory waited for him to go on.

"Your idea is bully. I can't see any reason why it won't work out all right. But in order to make that possible you've got to stir up the animals. When you get an idea like that, the thing to be done is to capitalize it. Why withhold it from the public? They would be interested. Let them in on it."