w. That is, not yet," he was forced to admit.

"Neither do I. Until I do, I'm not looking for any more trouble than I
can see ahead right now."

Silence for several moments. Then, from the girl:

"Besides, you couldn't find out anything. The fishermen are scared stiff
of Diablo as it is. When this gets around, they'll be even worse.
They're not looking for more excitement. They have enough."

To Gregory's mind recurred his plan of manning the girl's boats. Here
was an opportunity to justify it.

"The bunch I'm figuring on wouldn't be afraid of it," he said. "In fact
I think they would kind of enjoy finding out."

Dickie smiled. "Aren't you speaking two words for yourself?" she asked.

He smiled too. "I'll admit I have some curiosity," he answered.

The girl laughed. "You've got into the habit of fighting," she retorted.
"But the war is over now."

"Maybe you're right. But at Legonia I've an idea it has just begun."

It was just what she would have had him say. What she would have said
herself if she had spoken her mind. She liked a man who wasn't afraid.
They were the kind one could tie to. Gregory's proposal again assailed
her. It had its advantages. She would think it over while she was at the
wheel.

"Boat off starboard quarter," a gruff voice announced from the doorway.

Dickie Lang sprang to her feet and hurried on deck with Gregory
following close behind. From the gray gloom came the sharp exhaust of a
high-powered motor, running at top speed. As they looked in the
direction of the sound, which was fast changing to an angry roar, the
shifting wall of filmy fog was pierced by a flash of green.

"Mascola!"

Gregory was barely able to catch the girl's words above the uproar of
the gatlin-like exhaust. The next instant the green light flashed by and
was swallowed up in the gloom.

"I wonder what he's doing out here running like that?" Dickie mused.

"How do you know who it was?"

She laughed. "There's only one boat anywhere around here with an exhaust
like that," she answered. "That's the _Fuor d'Italia_. She's the fastest
craft in southern waters of her kind. And no one ever runs her but
Mascola."

Gregory continued to listen to the rapid-fire exhaust as it died away in
the distance. Then he pictured himself driving the trim craft, plunging
through the waves and hurling the spray into his face as he raced on.
Recalled to himself by the slow-moving _Pelican_ burdened by her tow, he
reflected that