“I can deliver the fish,” MacRae asserted confidently.  “But I don’t care to bind myself to anything.  Not this far in advance.  Wait till the salmon run.”

“You are a very shrewd young man, I should say.”  Robbin-Steele paid him a reluctant compliment and let a gleam of appreciation flicker in his dead-fish eyes.  “I imagine you will get on.  Come and see me when you feel like considering this matter seriously.”

MacRae went down the elevator wondering if the gentleman’s agreement among the packers was off, if there was going to be something in the nature of competition among them for the salmon.  There would be a few more gill-net licenses issued.  More important, the gill-netters would be free to fish where they chose, for whosoever paid the highest price, and not for the cannery which controlled their license.  There would be scores of independent purse seiners.  Would the packers bid against one another for the catch?  It rather seemed to MacRae as if they must.  They could no longer sit back secure in the knowledge that the salmon from a given area must come straight to their waiting cans.  And British Columbia packers had always dreaded American competition.

Following that, MacRae took train for Bellingham.  The people he had dealt with there at the close of the last season had dealt fairly.  American salmon packers had never suffered the blight of a monopoly.  They had established their industry in legitimate competition, without governmental favors.  They did not care how much money a fisherman made so long as he caught fish for them which they could profitably can.

MacRae had no contract with them.  He did not want a contract.  If he made hard and fast agreements with any one it would be with Stubby Abbott.  But he did want to fortify himself with all the information he could get.  He did not know what line Folly Bay would take when the season opened.  He was not sure what shifts might occur among the British Columbia canneries.  If such a thing as free and unlimited competition for salmon took place he might need more than one outlet for his carriers.  MacRae was not engaged in a hazardous business for pastime.  He had an objective, and this objective was contingent upon making money.

From the American source he learned that a good season was anticipated for the better grades of salmon.  He found out what prices he could expect.  They were liberal enough to increase his confidence.  These men were anxious to get the thousands of British Columbia salmon MacRae could supply.

MacRae returned to Vancouver.  Before he had finished unpacking his bag the telephone rang.  Hurley, of the Northwest Cold Storage, spoke when he took down the receiver.  Could he drop into the Northwest office?  MacRae grinned to himself and went down to the grimy wharf where deep-sea halibut schooners rubbed against the dock, their stubby top-hamper swaying under the office windows as they rocked to the swell of passing harbor craft.