Chapter XIII: The Shadow

“Fog.” There was more than a suggestion of disgust in Johnny’s tone as he said this word. It was the next morning. After a good night’s sleep aboard the _Stormy Petrel_ he felt ready for anything. The moment he awoke he had listened for the pounding surf.

“Gone!” He had leaped from his bunk. “Storm’s over. Now for a good look at Bristol Bay and perhaps, just perhaps, some of those Orientals.”

“Here’s hoping,” Lawrence agreed.

Yes, the storm was over, but here instead was a damp, chilling blanket of dull, gray fog.

“Can’t see a hundred feet,” he grumbled.

“You’ll get used to that, son.” It was Red McGee who spoke. He had been leaning on the rail talking to Blackie. “‘Men and Fog on the Bering Sea.’ That’s the name of a book. And it’s a good name. There are always men and nearly always there is fog.

“Fish are coming in,” he added as a cheering note. “Two boats are just in from a try at the gill-nets. They made a fair catch.”

“But this fog,” Johnny insisted, “gives those Orientals a chance to slip in close, doesn’t it?”

“It does!” Red agreed. “Blast their hides! That floatin’ factory of theirs comes in close to the three-mile limit. Then their other boats, small, fast ones, can come over the line and set nets. You couldn’t see them in the fog. They’d put ’em up early. Three miles of nets.

“Claim they’re catchin’ crabs. Crabs, me eye!” he exploded. “Crab nets are set on the bottom. Salmon nets are set close to the top. Drift nets are what they use. We’ve never found one inside the three-mile line, but we think they’ve been there all the same.

“If you ever do find one,” he turned to Blackie, “take it up and bring it in. We’ll can their fish an’ boil their nets.

“Shouldn’t be any three-mile line,” he continued. “All our shore water belongs to us. So do the fish. It’s food, son! Food for the millions. And these Orientals would have had fish on their own shores if they hadn’t exterminated them.”

“We’re going out right now,” said Blackie. “Going to have a look for that shadow that passes in the fog. We’ve got a nice swivel cannon up there forward. Don’t know whether you can hit a shadow, but it won’t do any harm to try.”

“All the same, this _is_ a serious situation,” said Blackie as they headed out into the fog. “These Alaskans are a strange people. They are like the men of the old west, the west that’s gone forever; fearless men with hearts of gold, fighting devils when they know they’ve been wronged. And this Oriental raiding business is an outrage, providing it’s true.”

“But is it true?” Johnny asked.

“That,” said Blackie, “is what we’re going to find out.

“Johnny,” he said after a moment, “go up forward and remove that box. Let our little brass messenger swing with the boat.”

A moment later, up forward, a small swivel cannon swung from side to side. As it did so it seemed to point, first right, then left.

“This way or that?” Johnny thought. “I wonder which it will be.”

Hour after hour the fog hung on. Hour after hour Johnny squinted his eyes for some moving object in that blanket of gray fog. The cold, damp ocean air chilled him to the bone. Stamping his feet, he held doggedly to his post. When his watch was over he went below to soak in the heat of the stove that George, the colored cook, kept roaring hot. He drank two cups of scalding black coffee, downed a plate of beans and a whole pan of hot biscuits, then spread himself out on a cushioned seat to close his eyes and dream.

In those dreams he saw creeping gray shadows, darting fish and a pair of laughing eyes. The eyes closed. When they opened the face wore a frown.

“Rusty!” he whispered. “Wonder if she’ll ever forgive me?”

All too soon his turn at the watch came. The days were long, twenty hours from dark to dawn. By nature a hard driver, inspired by his desire to help the Alaskans, Blackie steered his small craft endlessly through the gray murk.

Then—of a sudden Johnny rubbed his eyes—stared away to the right—closed his eyes—snapped them open again to whisper hoarsely,

“Blackie! The shadow passes.”

“The shadow! Where?”

The boy’s hand pointed.

“As I live!” Blackie muttered.

A short, slim line, little darker than the fog, moved slowly across the spot where sky and sea should meet.

“Ahoy, there!” Blackie roared. “What boat goes there?”

No answer.

“I’ll show them!” Blackie put out a hand. Three powerful motors roared. The _Stormy Petrel_ lurched forward, all but throwing Johnny into the sea.

Sudden as the movement was, it proved too slow. Like a true shadow, the thing vanished into the murk.

“It—it went down,” Johnny stammered. “Must have been a whale.”

“Or a submarine,” Lawrence suggested.

“It did not go down,” said MacGregor. “It slid away into the fog. And it was not a whale. I’ve seen plenty of whales. They’re never like that.”

“Wait!” Johnny sprang for the cannon. “I’ll give them a shot just to let them know we’re after them.”

“No! No! Not that!” MacGregor waved him back. “‘Speak softly and carry a big stick.’ That was Teddy Roosevelt’s motto. The grandest president that ever lived. There’s time enough to make a noise after we’ve got ’em under our thumb.”

“I—I’m sorry,” said Johnny.