ould have appeared to better advantage in
high-heeled shoes and silk stockings than those blunt-nosed boots and
canvas leggings. And why in the name of common sense would any woman
with hair like that want to keep it tucked away under a close-fitting
cap? She would have been beautiful in---- He roused himself from his
examination of the girl's attire and strove to fix his mind on the
object of her visit. He reached for the receipt-book as she finished
counting the money.

"Tenth payment," she exclaimed. "Five hundred. Makes twelve thousand
even. That right?"

Gregory ran over the money, consulting his notebook to verify the
figures.

"Right," he answered.

While he wrote the receipt she studied him. So this was the man whom
Richard Gregory had designated as a red-blooded American. The father's
praise of his absent son, she was forced to admit, had slightly
prejudiced her against the young man. No single individual could possess
all the sterling traits of character attributed to him by the late
cannery owner. That was impossible. He would fall down somewhere.

Gregory handed the girl her receipt.

"And now," he began, somewhat uncertain as to just how to proceed, "what
do you intend to do about the boats?"

Dickie Lang paused in the act of folding the paper and looked up
quickly. For some reason she felt herself irritated by the question. Her
irritation crept into her voice as she answered:

"I'm going to run them, of course."

Gregory straightened in his chair and faced about.

"You're going to run them?" he repeated. "You don't mean yourself?"

"Sure. What else would I do with them?" she asked coldly.

The man was caught for the moment unawares by the suddenness of the
question.

"I thought perhaps you would want to sell them," he answered bluntly.

"Why?" Her voice had a belligerent ring and he noticed that her eyes
were snapping. As he did not immediately reply, she flashed: "I know
why. It's because I'm a woman. You think I can't make good. Isn't that
it?"

Gregory felt his cheeks burn at the feeling she threw into her words.
He hadn't meant to make it quite so plain but if she insisted on the
truth, why not? Perhaps it was the best way.

"You've guessed it," he answered slowly. "You may call it prejudice if
you like, but that is just the way I feel."

Tapping the floor angrily with her foot, she interrupted:

"It's worse than prejudice. It's just plain damn-foolishness. Honestly,
after all I