Tales of the Fish Patrol | Page 9

saw, and said it wasn't a bad idea. We watched our chance, and
the next low-water slack, after Big Alec had removed the fish from the
line and returned ashore, we went out in the salmon boat. We had the
bearings of the line from shore marks, and we knew we would have no
difficulty in locating it. The first of the flood tide was setting in, when
we ran below where we thought the line was stretched and dropped
over a fishing-boat anchor. Keeping a short rope to the anchor, so that it
barely touched the bottom, we dragged it slowly along until it stuck and
the boat fetched up hard and fast.
"We've got it," Charley cried. "Come on and lend a hand to get it in."

Together we hove up the rope till the anchor I came in sight with the
sturgeon line caught across one of the flukes. Scores of the
murderous-looking hooks flashed into sight as we cleared the anchor,
and we had just started to run along the line to the end where we could
begin to lift it, when a sharp thud in the boat startled us. We looked
about, but saw nothing and returned to our work. An instant later there
was a similar sharp thud and the gunwale splintered between Charley's
body and mine.
"That's remarkably like a bullet, lad," he said reflectively. "And it's a
long shot Big Alec's making."
"And he's using smokeless powder," he concluded, after an
examination of the mile-distant shore. "That's why we can't hear the
report."
I looked at the shore, but could see no sign of Big Alec, who was
undoubtedly hidden in some rocky nook with us at his mercy. A third
bullet struck the water, glanced, passed singing over our heads, and
struck the water again beyond.
"I guess we'd better get out of this," Charley remarked coolly. "What do
you think, lad?"
I thought so, too, and said we didn't want the line anyway. Whereupon
we cast off and hoisted the spritsail. The bullets ceased at once, and we
sailed away, unpleasantly confident that Big Alec was laughing at our
discomfiture.
And more than that, the next day on the fishing wharf, where we were
inspecting nets, he saw fit to laugh and sneer at us, and this before all
the fishermen. Charley's face went black with anger; but beyond
promising Big Alec that in the end he would surely land him behind the
bars, he controlled himself and said nothing. The King of the Greeks
made his boast that no fish patrol had ever taken him or ever could take
him, and the fishermen cheered him and said it was true. They grew
excited, and it looked like trouble for a while; but Big Alec asserted his
kingship and quelled them.

Carmintel also laughed at Charley, and dropped sarcastic remarks, and
made it hard for him. But Charley refused to be angered, though he told
me in confidence that he intended to capture Big Alec if it took all the
rest of his life to accomplish it.
"I don't know how I'll do it," he said, "but do it I will, as sure as I am
Charley Le Grant. The idea will come to me at the right and proper
time, never fear."
And at the right time it came, and most unexpectedly. Fully a month
had passed, and we were constantly up and down the river, and down
and up the bay, with no spare moments to devote to the particular
fisherman who ran a Chinese line in the bight of Turner's Shipyard. We
had called in at Selby's Smelter one afternoon, while on patrol work,
when all unknown to us our opportunity happened along. It appeared in
the guise of a helpless yacht loaded with seasick people, so we could
hardly be expected to recognize it as the opportunity. It was a large
sloop-yacht, and it was helpless inasmuch as the trade-wind was
blowing half a gale and there were no capable sailors aboard.
From the wharf at Selby's we watched with careless interest the
lubberly manoeuvre performed of bringing the yacht to anchor, and the
equally lubberly manoeuvre of sending the small boat ashore. A very
miserable-looking man in draggled ducks, after nearly swamping the
boat in the heavy seas, passed us the painter and climbed out. He
staggered about as though the wharf were rolling, and told us his
troubles, which were the troubles of the yacht. The only rough-weather
sailor aboard, the man on whom they all depended, had been called
back to San Francisco by a telegram, and they had attempted to
continue the cruise alone. The high wind and big seas of San Pablo Bay
had been too much for them; all hands were sick,