Читать книгу El Diablo - Brayton Norton - Страница 9

1. The fishermen to furnish albacore, tuna and sardines at the same price paid by the Golden Rule Cannery.

2. The cannery to assume complete liability for all boats and equipment used by the fishermen in providing fish for it.

3. The cannery to agree to pay all fines, state and federal, for any violation of fishing or navigation laws.

4. The cannery to agree, under bonds, to hire no men who are not members of the fishermen's union.

Gregory looked up to meet Mascola's dark eyes regarding him intently.

"That is all," said the Italian boss.

"It's enough," commented Gregory tersely, striving to hold his temper in check at the impudence of Mascola's proposal. Any one of the four clauses he realized would be amply sufficient to throw him into bankruptcy. The first would place him in the hands of his local competitor, a Slavonian. The last would deliver all that was left to the fisherman's union, also foreigners. By the second clause his property would be placed in jeopardy to protect the carelessness or incompetence of others, aliens all. And the third, Gregory did not clearly understand. To satisfy his curiosity he asked:

"What do you mean by the cannery agreeing to pay the fines?"

Mascola smiled pityingly, exposing a fine set of even teeth.

"You are a stranger here. I forgot. So you do not know that it is necessary for fishermen to break the law sometimes to get fish. The canneries must have them. They ask no questions. If we can get them without breaking the laws it is so much the better. But sometimes when you have steam up you want fish very bad. Then you say, Mascola, I must have fish. Well, I get them for you. There are always fish to be caught in some way or other. They are worth a good deal to you at such a time. Why should you not pay for the extra risk we run in getting them?"

It was Gregory's turn to smile.

"Rather ingenious," he commented. "Do you find it necessary to go to such extremes often?"

Mascola sensed the sarcasm. A faint flush crept to his dark cheeks. He began to suspect that the young man was not taking either him or his proposition seriously. Perhaps he had said too much. He answered the question with one word.

"No."

Gregory studied Mascola's face and his smile faded. His irritation at the Italian's entrance had at first given place to amusement at the absurdity of the man's proposal. Now came again the feeling of dislike which had assailed him on the occasion of his first meeting with Mascola.

"Mascola," he said, "I'll keep your proposition in mind. That is just about all I ever will do with it, I guess, though I'll talk it over with Blair."

The Italian frowned at the mention of Blair. He had supposed Blair to be gone. Had not Rossi reported the departure of the former manager more than a month ago? Blair would be a stumbling-block to his scheme. Blair knew too much. Mascola realized that he had been too confident. He felt, moreover, that he had made a fool of himself. Had not the young man smiled? His anger mounted at the recollection. He rose quickly, fighting it down.

"All right, Mr. Gregory," he said smoothly. "I make my proposition. I come to you this time. You do not accept. It is all right. Next time you come to me."

Bowing slightly and smiling to hide his anger, he went out.

Gregory turned again to his work, but found it hard to keep his mind from the Italian's veiled threat. It angered him. Mascola had appeared so sure of his ground. His irritation grew as his eye fell again on the Lang contract. If he only had some one with whom he could talk. Some one who knew something about fishing or running a cannery. Some one who would understand what he was up against. His father evidently had few if any confidants. If he had only left some written word.

From the cannery came the sound of excited voices, a jargon of unintelligible words. Gregory sprang to his feet and hurried out. He met Mascola coming to meet him. Behind him trooped the alien laborers.

The Italian stopped abruptly and threw out his arm with a dramatic gesture. Pointing in the direction of the solitary soldier who stood staring with open mouth, he said: "My men, they do not work with scabs, Mr. Gregory. You let that man go, or they quit."

"Let them quit."

Gregory spoke quickly and tried to smile. Losing his temper would not help matters. That wasn't business.

Mascola spoke rapidly to the men in their own tongue, waving his arms and rolling his eyes. Gregory noticed that every one seemed to be getting excited. With scowling faces, the alien laborers grouped themselves about their leader and glared at the offending soldier and his boss.

Gregory checked a quick impulse forcibly to show Mascola the door. It was the right of every man to refuse to work if the job was not to his liking. There was, however, nothing to get excited over. He turned to Mascola.

"Tell your men to come into the office and get their money," he said.

His quiet manner disappointed the Italian boss. He had hoped for a scene. An argument at least. His men expected more of him than this. Gregory had calmly turned his back upon him and was walking away. Mascola could stand no more.

"All right, Gregory," he called. "You go ahead and hire a scab crew. Then you'll find out you're the same damn fool as your father."

Gregory whirled. Mascola's hand leaped to his side, burying itself in the folds of his shirt. Before he could bring it out, Kenneth Gregory was upon him.

His fist caught Mascola full on the chin. The Italian's head snapped backward. His feet shot forward. He clutched at the air for support and strove to regain his balance. Then he fell to the floor, rolled over like a cat, and rebounded to his feet, snarling.

Gregory heard a warning cry from Barnes: "Look out! He's got a knife."

Barnes looked vainly about for a weapon as he ran to his employer's assistance.

The laborers pressed closer, their brown hands fingering their belts, their faces dark with passion. Hemmed in on every side by the scowling aliens, Gregory took a step forward and stood waiting.

Mascola advanced warily with peculiar sideling steps. His face was a mottled gray save in one place where his chin was flecked with blood. His left arm was extended guard-wise. His right was crooked loosely to his side, fingers covered. He crouched low and gathered.

Gregory measured the distance which separated him from the advancing Italian. Faintly to his ears came the sound of creaking boards behind him. Perhaps Mascola's men were pressing in from the rear. He dared not look to see. His eyes were held by Mascola's crooked arm. That was what he must grab and break.

Mascola's dark eyes, shining with anger, flashed over Gregory's shoulder to the door beyond. Then they widened with surprise. He stopped suddenly. His extended arm drooped. For an instant he stood hesitating, wavering. He took a step backward. His crooked arm unbent, dropped slowly to his side.

His eyes were held by the open door.