n there," he corrected. "Think he----"

But Gregory did not wait to hear what Blagg thought.

Blagg looked after him stupidly. He had had no time to speak of his
hatred or suspicion of Mascola. But he'd show the dago yet.

A crowd of fishermen lumbered along the sidewalk toward him, talking
excitedly. Leaning against the sign-board, Blagg was able to gather from
their conversation that a fight had just occurred at the Red Paint. Some
one had tried to get square with the boss and Mascola had knifed him.

Cold sweat broke out on Joe Blagg's forehead. To his whirling brain came
other instances he had heard of how Mascola always got square with those
who opposed him. Blagg's whiskyfied courage began to ooze. Perhaps he
had gone too far. Suppose Neilson, with a desire to get in strong with
the boss, should tell Mascola that he, Joe Blagg, was trying to start a
strike among the alien fishermen? And a Swede liked to talk too. Why not
get out of town for a while till the thing blew over? He wasn't afraid
of the dago and his whole crowd. But what was the use of starting a row?
Besides he was ready to move anyway. He reflected suddenly that the
midnight train for Frisco stopped at Legonia on signal. That would give
him time to throw his stuff together. He had already drawn his money.
Why not hit the grit?

* * * * *

As Jack McCoy took his way down the hillside he was acutely conscious of
the fact that the evening had been a distinct disappointment. Why was
Gregory there anyway? That talk about his forgetting his papers sounded
mighty thin. How many times had the boss been there before? What was the
matter with Dick to-night? She acted kind of funny, didn't seem to care
whether he stayed any longer or not.

McCoy stopped by the roadside as he caught sight of a man running
hastily along one of the streets leading from the town. Whoever the
fellow was he was sure in a hurry the way he was cutting 'cross lots. As
the runner came under the rays of the corner arc-light, McCoy started
and peered intently after the departing figure.

It sure looked like Gregory. And he was angling in the direction of the
Lang hill. The idea clung tenaciously. When he reached his rooming-house
it became an obsession. He decided to find out if the runner could have
been his employer. Calling up the cannery it was some time before a
sleepy voice answered his summons.

"Boss ain't here. Went out at eight and ain't bee