The cold storage man smiled.

“Come and see me in the spring.  Meantime, when you have a cargo of salmon, you might run them in to us.  We’ll pay market prices.  It’s up to you to protect yourself in the buying.”

MacRae went on about his business.  He had not expected much encouragement locally, so he did not suffer disappointment.  He knew quite well what he could expect in Vancouver if Crow Harbor canceled his contract.  He would bring in boatloads of salmon, and the dealers would squeeze him, all but the Terminal Fish Company.  And if the market could be controlled, if the men behind could dictate the Crow Harbor policy, they might also bring the Terminal into line.  Even if they did not the Terminal could only handle a minor portion of the salmon he could get while the big run swirled around Squitty Island.

But MacRae was not downcast.  He was only sober and thoughtful, which had become characteristic of him in the last four months.  He was forgetting how to laugh, to be buoyant, to see the world through the rose-colored glasses of sanguine youth.  He was becoming a living exampler of his nickname.  Even Stubby Abbott marked this when Jack came back from Bellingham.

“Come on out to the house,” Stubby urged.  “Your men can handle the job a day or two longer.  Forget the grind for once.  It’s getting you.”

“No, I don’t think it is,” MacRae denied.  “But a man can’t play and produce at the same time.  I have to keep going.”

He did go out to Abbott’s one evening, however, and suffered a good deal of teasing from Nelly over his manhandling of Sam Kaye.  A lot of other young people happened to foregather there.  They sang and flirted and presently moved the rugs off the living-room floor and danced to a phonograph.  MacRae found himself a little out of it, by inclination.  He was tired, without knowing quite what was the matter with him.  A man, even a young and sturdy man, cannot work like a horse for months on end, eating his meals anyhow and sleeping when he can, without losing temporarily the zest for careless fun.  For another thing, he found himself looking at these immaculate young people as any hard-driven worker must perforce look upon drones.

They were sons and daughters of the well-to-do, divorced from all uncouthness, with pretty manners and good clothes.  They seemed serene in the assurance—­MacRae got this impression for the first time in his social contact with them—­that wearing good clothes, behaving well, giving themselves whole-heartedly to having a good time, was the most important and satisfying thing in the world.  They moved in an atmosphere of considering these things their due, a birthright, their natural and proper condition of well-being.

And MacRae found himself wondering what they gave or ever expected to give in return for this pleasant security of mind and body.  Some one had to pay for it, the silks and georgettes and white flannels, furs and strings of pearls and gold trinkets, the good food, the motor cars, and the fun.