y lost interest and I
haven't been able to get a flutter out of them since. The other dealers
seem to be afraid of us for some reason. They come down and look us
over, but that is all."

McCoy scowled at the huge stacks of shining tins and shook his head.
"It's got me," he admitted. "We're putting out a first-class article but
we can't unload it. I've got a hunch somebody's plugging against us."
Noting the worried lines which were finding their way to Gregory's face
at his words, he went on hastily:

"I'm sorry to have you come back into such a tangle as this. I did my
best but you see I didn't have a minute to get out and take care of the
sales."

"Don't say a word, Jack," Gregory interrupted. "You've done more than
your part. Every man of you and every woman too," he added quickly.
"I'll never forget it. This part of the game is up to me. I'm feeling
fit now. Keen to get going. I want to look things over for a few minutes
in the office. Then I'll talk with you again and let you know what I'm
going to do first."

A careful examination of his finances convinced Gregory of the
seriousness of the situation. There was only one thing to be done. He
must visit the jobbers at once.

He paused abruptly in his calculations at the staccato bark of a
high-powered motor. Mascola, he thought, as he rose and walked to the
window. What he saw through the glass caused him to stand staring.
Speeding through the dancing waters of the sunlit bay came a
speed-launch, heading in the direction of the cannery wharf. But it was
not the _Fuor d'Italia_. His eyes followed the course of the oncoming
stranger and a worried frown leaped to his brow. It couldn't be that Joe
Barrows had completed the _Richard_ already. He glanced at the calendar
and his frown deepened. In all probability it was his boat. And if so,
where was he going to get the money to pay for it?

He walked to the wharf and with narrowing eyes watched the stranger's
approach. Something wrong somewhere, he reasoned. He had ordered a
speed-boat. One that would beat Mascola's. A craft with real lines and
bird-like grace like the _Fuor d'Italia_. The oncoming launch, he
observed bitterly, was the direct antithesis of his expectations. Surely
there could be no speed in that squatty packet with her sagging bow and
queer looking box-affair for a stern.

The strange craft drew abreast of the wharf and whirled about in a
wave-washed circle. The motor hummed with contentment and th