new he was square, and they said so.
In the territory his two carriers covered, MacRae was becoming the
uncrowned salmon king. Other buyers cut in from time to time. They did
not fare well. The trollers would hold their salmon, even when some
sporting independent offered to shade the current price. They would
shake their heads if they knew either of the _Bird_ boats would be there
to take the fish. For when MacRae said he would be there, he was always
there. In the old days they had been compelled to play one buyer
against another. They did not have to do that with MacRae.

The Folly Bay collectors fared little better than outside buyers. In
July Gower met MacRae's price by two successive raises. He stopped at
that. MacRae did not. Each succeeding run of salmon averaged greater
poundage. They were worth more. MacRae paid fifty, fifty-five cents.
When Gower stood pat at fifty-five, MacRae gave up a fourth of his
contract percentage and paid sixty. It was like draw poker with the
advantage of the last raise on his side.

The salmon were worth the price. They were worth double to a cannery
that lay mostly idle for lack of fish. The salmon, now, were running
close to six pounds each. The finished product was eighteen dollars a
case in the market. There are forty-eight one-pound cans in a case. To a
man familiar with packing costs it is a simple sum. MacRae often
wondered why Gower stubbornly refused to pay more, when his collecting
boats came back to the cannery so often with a few scattered salmon in
their holds. They were primitive folk, these salmon trollers. They
jeered the unlucky collectors. Gower was losing his fishermen as well as
his fish. For the time, at least, the back of his long-held monopoly was
broken.

MacRae got a little further light on this attitude from Stubby Abbott.

"He's figuring on making out a season's pack with cohoes, humps, and dog
salmon," Stubby told MacRae at the Crow Harbor cannery. "He expects to
work his purse seiners overtime, and to hell with the individual
fisherman. Norman was telling me. Old Horace has put Norman in charge at
Folly Bay, you know."

MacRae nodded. He knew about that.

"The old boy is sore as a boil at you and me," Stubby chuckled. "I
don't blame him much. He has had a cinch there so long he thinks it's
his private pond. You've certainly put a crimp in the Folly Bay blueback
pack--to my great benefit. I don't suppose any one but you could have
done it either."