That was only a beginning he knew,—­only a beginning of profits and of work.  He purposely thrust the taking of salmon on young Ferrara, let him handle the cash, tally in the fish, watched Vincent nonchalantly chuck out overripe salmon that careless trollers would as nonchalantly heave in for fresh ones if they could get away with it.  For Jack MacRae had it in his mind to go as far and as fast as he could while the going was good.  That meant a second carrier on the run as soon as the Folly Bay cannery opened, and it meant that he must have in charge of the second boat an able man whom he could trust.  There was no question about trusting Vincent Ferrara.  It was only a matter of his ability to handle the job, and that he demonstrated to MacRae’s complete satisfaction.

Early in June MacRae went to Stubby Abbott.

“Have you sold the Bluebird yet?” he asked.

“I want to let three of those Bird boats go,” Stubby told him.  “I don’t need ’em.  They’re dead capital.  But I haven’t made a sale yet.”

“Charter me the Bluebird on the same terms,” Jack proposed.

“You’re on.  Things must be going good.”

“Not too bad,” MacRae admitted.

“Folly Bay opens the twentieth.  We open July first,” Stubby said abruptly.  “How many bluebacks are you going to get for us?”

“Just about all that are caught around Squitty Island,” MacRae said quietly.  “That’s why I want another carrier.”

“Huh!” Stubby grunted.  His tone was slightly incredulous.  “You’ll have to go some.  Wish you luck though.  More you get the better for me.”

“I expect to deliver sixty thousand bluebacks to Crow Harbor in July,” MacRae said.

Stubby stared at him.  His eyes twinkled.

“If you can do that in July, and in August too,” he said, “I’ll give you the Bluebird.”

“No,” MacRae smiled.  “I’ll buy her.”

“Where will Folly Bay get off if you take that many fish away?” Stubby reflected.

“Don’t know.  And I don’t care a hoot.”  MacRae shrugged his shoulders.  “I’m fairly sure I can do it.  You don’t care?”

“Do I?  I’ll shout to the world I don’t,” Stubby replied.  “It’s self-preservation with me.  Let old Horace look out for himself.  He had his fingers in the pie while we were in France.  I don’t have to have four hundred per cent profit to do business.  Get the fish if you can, Jack, old boy, even if it busts old Horace.  Which it won’t—­and, as I told you, lack of them may bust me.”

“By the way,” Stubby said as MacRae rose to go, “don’t you ever have an hour to spare in town?  You haven’t been out at the house for six weeks.”

MacRae held out his hands.  They were red and cut and scarred, roughened, and sore from salt water and ice-handling and fish slime.

“Wouldn’t they look well clasping a wafer and a teacup,” he laughed.  “I’m working, Stub.  When I have an hour to spare I lie down and sleep.  If I stopped to play every time I came to town—­do you think you’d get your sixty thousand bluebacks in July?”