she exclaimed wrathfully. "Look what they have
already. I'll bet I'd have had a good haul if they had let me alone."

Gregory noticed as he straightened up that the distant speck on the
water was fast assuming the proportions of a motor-launch. He noticed
too that the approaching craft was coming at a high rate of speed and
was swerving shoreward. Tugging harder at the nets, he worked doggedly
on, listening to the staccato bark of the speed-craft as Mascola drew
close. They were hauling at the last string when he came within hailing
distance.

"What's the matter?" he called. "You're pulling my nets."

"Don't pay any attention to him," admonished Dickie Lang. "I'm not going
to hollow my head off. Keep working and wait until he comes alongside."

With his motor purring like an angry cat, Mascola whirled his craft
about in a wave-washed circle and drew abreast of the _Petrel_. At the
same instant Gregory and the fisherman lifted the last piece of the
Italian's nets to the deck. Gregory straightened his aching back and
looked toward the early morning visitor, but his eyes did not get as far
as Mascola. They remained riveted on the launch.

Never had he seen such a boat. She poised on the waves like a gull,
quivering with potential energy, ready for instant flight. From her
sharply V-ed bow to her delicately molded stern, every line of the trim
craft spoke eloquently of the plan of a master-designer who fashioned
her with a single purpose--speed.

"What's the matter I say? You're pulling my nets."

Gregory freed his eyes with an effort from the launch to survey its
owner. Mascola turned angrily on the leather cushion and glared at the
_Petrel's_ deck.

Dickie Lang walked coolly to the rail. "Sure I'm pulling your nets,"
she said. "I've got them all aboard. And that's where they're going to
stay until you pay me for the fish your outfit took from my nets."

"I never take your fish. I don't know----"

"Oh, yes you do, Mascola. Boris laid around me and robbed my nets.
There's my webbing lying right where I put it out. I caught that crazy
Russian of yours with the goods and he lost his head and your boat. He's
piled up over there on the beach."

Mascola rose hastily and followed the direction of her arm. In his anger
at beholding Dickie taking his nets from the water he had not noticed
the wreck of the _Roma_. A torrent of Italian words burst from his lips.
His cheeks purpled and his eyes grew hot with passion. When