s two men loafed on the clean-slushed deck. They were
none of them company for MacRae in his present mood. He sought the
cliffs to be alone.

Gower had beaten him, it would seem. And MacRae did not take kindly to
being beaten. But he did not think this was the end yet. Gower would do
as he had done before. When he felt himself secure in his monopoly he
would squeeze the fishermen, squeeze them hard. And as soon as he did
that MacRae would buy again. He could not make any money himself,
perhaps. But he could make Gower operate at a loss. That would be
something accomplished.

MacRae walked along the cliffs until he saw the white cottage, and saw
also that some one sat on the steps in the sun. Whereupon he turned
back. He didn't want to see Betty. He conceived that to be an ended
chapter in his experiences. He had hurt her, and she had put on her
armor against another such hurt. There was a studied indifference about
her now, when he met her, which hurt him terribly. He supposed that in
addition to his own incomprehensible attitude which she resented, she
took sides with her father in this obvious commercial warfare which was
bleeding them both financially. Very likely she saw in this only the
open workings of his malice toward Gower. In which MacRae admitted she
would be quite correct. He had not been able to discover in that
flaring-up of passion for Betty any reason for a burial of his feud with
Gower. There was in him some curious insistence upon carrying this to
the bitter end. And his hatred of Gower was something alive, vital,
coloring his vision somberly. The shadow of the man lay across his life.
He could not ignore this, and his instinct was for reprisal. The
fighting instinct in MacRae lurked always very near the surface.

He spent a good many hours during the next three or four days lying in
the shade of a gnarly arbutus which gave on the cliffs. He took a book
up there with him, but most of the time he lay staring up at the blue
sky through the leaves, or at the sea, or distant shore lines, thinking
always in circles which brought him despairingly out where he went in.
He saw a mustard pot slide each day into the Cove and pass on about its
business. There was not a great deal to be got in the Cove. The last gas
boat had scuttled away to the top end, where the blueback were schooling
in vast numbers. There were still salmon to be taken about Poor Man's
Rock. The rowboat men took a few fish each day and hoped