the rowboat men. She would dump a day's gathering on the _Blanco's_
deck, and the two crews would dress salmon till their hands were sore.
But it saved both time and fuel to have that great carrying capacity,
and the freezing plant which automatically chilled the fish. MacRae
could stay on the grounds till he was fully loaded. He could slash
through to Vancouver at nine knots instead of seven. A sea that would
toss the old wrecked _Blackbird_ like a dory and keep her low decks
continually awash let the _Blanco_ pass with only a moderate pitch and
roll.

MacRae worked hard. He found ease in work. When the last salmon was
dressed and stowed below, many times under the glow of electric bulbs
strung along the cargo boom, he would fall into his bunk and sleep
dreamlessly. Decks streaming with blood and offal, plastered with slime
and clinging scales--until such time as they were washed down--ceased to
annoy him. No man can make omelettes without breaking eggs. Only the
fortunate few can make money without soiling their hands. There is no
room in the primary stages of taking salmon for those who shrink from
sweat and strain, from elemental stress. The white-collared and the
lily-fingered cannot function there. The pink meat my lady toys with on
Limoges china comes to her table by ways that would appal her. Only the
men who toil aboard the fishing boats, with line and gear and gutting
knife know in what travail this harvest of the sea is reaped.

MacRae played fair, according to his conception of fair play. He based
his payments on a decent profit, without which he could not carry on.
Running heavier cargoes at less cost he raised the price to the
fishermen as succeeding runs of blueback salmon were made up of larger,
heavier fish. Other buyers came, lingered awhile, cursed him and went
away. They could not run to Vancouver with small quantities of salmon