“Yes, I think I do,” Robbin-Steele returned.  “Gower had things pretty much his own way until you cut in on his grounds.  You have undoubtedly secured quite an advantage in a peculiar manner, and possibly you feel secure against competition.  But your hold is not so strong as Gower’s once was.  Let me tell you, your hold on that business can be broken, my young friend.”

“Undoubtedly,” MacRae readily admitted.  “But there is a world-wide demand for canned salmon, and I have not suffered for a market—­even when influence was used last season to close the home market against me, on Folly Bay’s behalf.  And I am quite sure, from what I have seen and heard, that many of the big British Columbia packers like yourself are so afraid the labor situation will get out of hand that they would shut down their plants rather than pay fishermen what they could afford to pay if they would be content with a reasonable profit.  So I am not at all afraid of you seducing the Squitty trollers with high prices.”

“You are laboring under the common error about cannery profits,” Robbin-Steele declared pointedly.  “Considering the capital invested, the total of the pack, the risk and uncertainty of the business, our returns are not excessive.”

MacRae smiled amusedly.

“That all depends on what you regard as excessive.  But there is nothing to be gained by an argument on that subject.  Canning salmon is a highly profitable business, but it would not be the gold mine it has been if canneries hadn’t been fostered at the expense of the men who actually catch the fish, if the government hadn’t bestowed upon cannery men the gift of a strangle hold on the salmon grounds, and license privileges that gave them absolute control.  I haven’t any quarrel with cannery men for making money.  You only amuse me when you speak of doubtful returns.  I wish I could have your cinch for a season or two.”

“You shouldn’t have any quarrel with us.  You started with nothing and made twenty thousand dollars in a single season,” Robbin-Steele reminded.

“I worked like a dog.  I took chances.  And I was very lucky,” MacRae agreed.  “I did make a lot of money.  But I paid the fishermen more than they ever got for salmon—­a great deal more than they would have got if I hadn’t broken into the game.  Abbott made money on the salmon I delivered him.  So everybody was satisfied, except Gower—­who perhaps feels that he is ordained by the Almighty to get cheap salmon.”

“You’re spoiling those men,” Robbin-Steele declared irritably.  “My observation of that class of labor is that the more money they get the less they will do and the more they will want.  You can’t carry on any industry on that basis.  But that’s beside the point.  We’re getting away from the question.  We want you to deliver those fish to us, if you can do so at a reasonable price.  We should like to have some sort of agreement, so that we may know what to expect.”