Then he rose, dressed, made his way laboriously and painfully down to the Cove’s edge and took a brief look at the hull of the Blackbird sunk to her deck line, her rail and cabins broken and twisted.  After that he hailed a fisherman, engaged him to go across to Solomon River and apprise the Bluebird.  That accomplished he went back to the house.  Thereafter he spent days lying on his bed, resting in a big chair before the fireplace while his wounds healed and his strength came back to him, thinking, planning, chafing at inaction.

There was a perfunctory inquest, after which Steve’s body went away to Hidalgo Island to rest beside the bodies of other Ferraras in a plot of ground their grandfather had taken for his own when British Columbia was a Crown colony.

MacRae carried insurance on both his carriers.  There was no need for him to move against Gower in the matter.  The insurance people would attend efficiently to that.  The adjusters came, took over the wreck, made inquiries.  MacRae made his formal claim, and it was duly paid.

But long before the payment was made he was at work, he and Vin Ferrara together, on the Bluebird, plowing the Gulf in stormy autumn weather.  The season was far gone, the salmon run slackening to its close.  It was too late to equip another carrier.  The cohoes were gone.  The dog salmon, great-toothed, slimy fish which are canned for European export—­for cheap trade, which nevertheless returned much profit to the canneries—­were still running.

MacRae had taken ninety per cent. of the Folly Bay bluebacks.  He had made tremendous inroads on Folly Bay’s take of coho and humpback.  He did not care greatly if Gower filled his cans with “dogs.”  But the Bellingham packers cried for salmon of whatsoever quality, and so MacRae drove the Bluebird hard in a trade which gave him no great profit, chiefly to preserve his connection with the American canners, to harass Folly Bay, and to let the fishermen know that he was still a factor and could serve them well.

He was sick of the smell of salmon, weary of the eternal heaving of the sea under his feet, of long cold tricks at the wheel, of days in somber, driving rain and nights without sleep.  But he kept on until the salmon ceased to run, until the purse seiners tied up for the season, and the fishermen put by their gear.

MacRae had done well,—­far better than he expected.  His knife had cut both ways.  He had eighteen thousand dollars in cash and the Bluebird.  The Folly Bay pack was twelve thousand cases short.  How much that shortage meant in lost profit MacRae could only guess, but it was a pretty sum.  Another season like that,—­he smiled grimly.  The next season would be better,—­for him.  The trollers were all for him.  They went out of their way to tell him that.  He had organized good will behind him.  The men who followed the salmon schools believed he did not want the earth,