El Diablo Part 26

"For a time after that," Miss Lang continued, "my brother stayed away from Diablo. When fish were scarce he went back. He hadn't had his nets out a week before he lost them all. No one ever knew what became of them. Will was getting worried though he tried not to show it. He was about ready to give it up when your father bought the cannery and came to Legonia. For a while after that fis.h.i.+ng was good everywhere. As long as they stayed away from that accursed island things went well. But they were not satisfied. So they sent the _Eagle_ over there. The last they heard of her she was anch.o.r.ed in Northwest Harbor."

The room grew very still as the old lady continued:

"That worried them. Because they could not find out what became of her.

The fishermen began to refuse to go there and I thanked G.o.d it was all over. Then one night Will and your father went out to Diablo in the _Gull_. Why they went, heaven only will ever know."

She rose slowly and walked to the door.

"She won't sleep a wink to-night," exclaimed d.i.c.kie as the door closed on her aunt. "I must look after her."

When the girl returned a few minutes later she found Gregory and McCoy discussing business. Gregory remained on his feet at her entrance.

"I must be going," he said. "I have a lot of work to do."

Bidding McCoy good night, he followed d.i.c.kie to the hall.

"I'm glad you came up even if you did forget the balance-sheet. Come up again any time you're not too busy."

With the girl's words in his ears, Gregory walked into the moonlight.

The evening had not been a complete failure after all. As he turned his steps in the direction of the town his mind was wholly engrossed with the events of the past two hours. How Aunt Mary did hate Diablo. Had the girl noticed how badly his clothes fit him in comparison with McCoy's?

Why had Jack appeared so grouchy?

He stopped short in his descent of the hill road as he saw a man walking unsteadily toward him. Moving to one side he watched the drunken fisherman stumble on, heard the low mumbling of his voice. Then the moonlight fell full upon the man's face.

It was Boris, the crazy Russian.

CHAPTER XVI

THE BAITED p.a.w.n

Of all the many saloons that made up Legonia's water-front the "Red Paint" was the favorite resort among the alien fishermen. The universal popularity of the establishment was due mainly to three causes. The boss owned the place and paid off there between moons. Credit was freely given to all fishermen in good standing, and thirdly, Mascola's emporium enjoyed full police protection.

During the evening when Gregory made his first call at the Lang hill the tide of revelry at the "Red Paint" was at the flood. It was pay-day and the boss was in high good humor. Either occurrence was always good for a number of rounds of free drinks. But when Mascola was happy on pay-day, the liberality of the "Red Paint" was indeed prodigal.

And Mascola was happy. Within the frosted gla.s.s enclosure that marked off his saloon-office from the bar, the Italian sat at his desk in a genial glow of good humor. The glow was purely physical, superinduced by the rapidly disappearing contents of the slim-nosed bottle which stood at his elbow. The good humor was due to other causes.

As he re-filled his gla.s.s, Mascola smiled. It hadn't been such a bad day at that. He'd showed somebody something about albacore fis.h.i.+ng. And he'd show them a lot more before he got through. Things were coming his way too from other sources. He took out his leather wallet and ran over a number of bills of high denomination. Then he took another drink and smiled at the ceiling. It had been such easy money. Much easier than fis.h.i.+ng.

A knock sounded at the street-door. Mascola shoved the wallet again into his pocket and hastily removed his bottle of Amontillado.

"Come in," he called.

Boris entered, clumsily filling the doorway with his great bulk and bringing with him a strong odor of garlic and j.a.p _sake_. For a moment he stood on the threshold, blinking stupidly. Then he pulled the door closed with a bang.

Mascola's eyes grew hard as he dropped his hand into a drawer of his desk which stood open.

"Stay where you are," he commanded. "What do you want?"

"Job," muttered the Russian thickly.

Mascola shook his head and an annoyed frown darkened his brow. "Go home," he said. "You're drunk. You're no good. I fired you. Don't want to talk."

Boris made no move to comply with his order. His small eyes roved restlessly about the room for a moment, then came to rest on the Italian.

"Boys making fool with me all time," he said. "Say I can no lick woman.

I get d.a.m.n mad. You give me job. I show you."

Mascola shook his head. Leaning closer to the swaying figure, he said in a low voice: "Show me first."

Boris's face became purple with rage as the import of Mascola's answer filtered into his thick skull. He clenched his huge hands and raised them above his head, mumbling all the while in his own tongue. Then his arms fell to his sides and his pig-like eyes gleamed with belated comprehension. Licking his dry lips, he said: "Give me drink. I show you to-night."

The Italian slipped a hand into his pocket and tossed him a two-dollar bill. Stumbling to the door the Russian found Mascola close by his side.

"Wait," he commanded. "Sit down. There."

He pointed to a chair screened from the street entrance by a large steel safe. When Boris had deposited his great bulk therein, Mascola walked to the door and looked up and down the street. Then he returned and grasped the Russian by the arm.

"Go," he said. As Boris reached the door he shoved him out with the whisper:

"Don't forget. You've got to show me."

Joe Blagg was among the last of Mascola's men to come for his money. And though he said nothing when he signed the pay-roll, Blagg nursed a grouch against his employer. Mascola had cursed him out that morning and no livin' dago could do that. He'd get square, or his name wasn't Joe Blagg.

The bartender shoved a black bottle toward him as he pocketed his money.

"Boss's treat," he announced.

Blagg's animosity thawed sufficiently to permit him to accept the proffered drink, then flared again under the influence of the fiery liquor. He called for another and gulped it down. Then Mascola's whisky began to talk. He'd make the dago eat his words. That's what he'd do.

Two more drinks and he decided to have it out with Mascola at once.

"Where's boss?" he inquired thickly.

The bartender jerked his shorn head in the direction of the frosted gla.s.s enclosure.

Blagg drew back, his ardor somewhat chilled to find his quarry so near.

Perhaps it was better to figure out just what he was going to say before he tackled the boss. Deciding that he could plan better in the open air, he walked unsteadily to the swinging doors and staggered across the street. There he leaned against the bulkhead and looked back at the Red Paint.

A flash of light illumined the side-walk in front of the saloon office and Blagg saw Mascola's figure silhouetted in the open doorway. He was looking up and down the street. As the fisherman drew back into the shadow the Italian disappeared to return a moment later shoving a burly figure before him.

Blagg became even more discreet as he recognized Mascola's guest. Boris was a bigger man by far than himself. And yet Mascola was putting him out with no trouble at all. The observation had a sobering effect upon the fisherman. His militant air changed quickly to one of craft. He'd quit the boss and pull a lot of the boys along with him. He could hit the dago better that way. They were all pretty sore at being bossed around by a "furrinor" anyway. And work was plenty up around Frisco. He'd round up a bunch of the boys right away.

With that idea in view he walked along the water-front and turned again to the row of saloons. Then he noticed that Boris was lurching along ahead of him. He saw the Russian push open the door of the "Buffalo" and heard the derisive roar from within which greeted his entrance. Scenting amus.e.m.e.nt at Boris's expense, Blagg followed. When he elbowed his way through the press of fishermen who thronged the "Buffalo" bar, he saw the Russian surrounded by a jeering crowd.

"Got a job yet, Boris?" some one called.