The skipper took his eye off the tallyman counting in fish.

"Fifty cents," he answered in a voice that echoed up and down the Cove.

"That must sound good to the fishermen," MacRae called back pleasantly.
"Folly Bay's getting generous in its declining years."

It was the off period between tides. There were forty boats at rest in
the Cove and more coming in. The ripple of laughter that ran over the
fleet was plainly audible. They could appreciate that. MacRae sat down
on the _Blanco's_ after cabin and lit a cigarette.

"Looks like they mean to get the fish," Vin hazarded. "Can you tilt that
and make anything?"

"Let them do the tilting," MacRae answered. "If the fish run heavy I can
make a little, even if prices go higher. If he boosts them to
seventy-five, I'd have to quit. At that price only the men who catch the
fish will make anything. I really don't know how much we will be able to
pay when Crow Harbor opens up."

"We'll have some fun anyway." Vin's black eyes sparkled.

It took MacRae three days to get a load. Human nature functions pretty
much the same among all men. The trollers distrusted Folly Bay. They
said to one another that if Gower could kill off competition he would
cut the price to the bone. He had done that before. But when a fisherman
rises wearily from his bunk at three in the morning and spends the bulk
of the next eighteen hours hauling four one hundred and fifty foot
lines, each weighted with from six to fifteen pounds of lead, he feels