Fishers -- Fiction; Fishing villages -- Fiction; Immigrants -- Fiction; San Francisco Bay Area (Calif.) -- Fiction; Short stories
The spirit of the Chinese was broken, and so docile did they become that
ere we made San Rafael they were out with the tow-rope, Yellow
Handkerchief at the head of the line. As for George, it was his last
trip with the fish patrol. He did not care for that sort of thing, he
explained, and he thought a clerkship ashore was good enough for him.
And we thought so too.
THE KING OF THE GREEKS
BIG ALEC had never been captured by the fish patrol. It was his boast
that no man could take him alive, and it was his history that of the many
men who had tried to take him dead none had succeeded. It was also
history that at least two patrolmen who had tried to take him dead had
died themselves. Further, no man violated the fish laws more
systematically and deliberately than Big Alec.
He was called “Big Alec” because of his gigantic stature. His height was
six feet three inches, and he was correspondingly broad-shouldered and
deep-chested. He was splendidly muscled and hard as steel, and there
were innumerable stories in circulation among the fisher-folk concerning
his prodigious strength. He was as bold and dominant of spirit as he was
strong of body, and because of this he was widely known by another name,
that of “The King of the Greeks.” The fishing population was largely
composed of Greeks, and they looked up to him and obeyed him as their
chief. And as their chief, he fought their fights for them, saw that
they were protected, saved them from the law when they fell into its
clutches, and made them stand by one another and himself in time of
trouble.
In the old days, the fish patrol had attempted his capture many
disastrous times and had finally given it over, so that when the word was
out that he was coming to Benicia, I was most anxious to see him. But I
did not have to hunt him up. In his usual bold way, the first thing he
did on arriving was to hunt us up. Charley Le Grant and I at the time
were under a patrolman named Carmintel, and the three of us were on the
_Reindeer_, preparing for a trip, when Big Alec stepped aboard.
Carmintel evidently knew him, for they shook hands in recognition. Big
Alec took no notice of Charley or me.
“I’ve come down to fish sturgeon a couple of months,” he said to
Carmintel.
His eyes flashed with challenge as he spoke, and we noticed the
patrolman’s eyes drop before him.
“That’s all right, Alec,” Carmintel said in a low voice. “I’ll not
bother you. Come on into the cabin, and we’ll talk things over,” he
added.
When they had gone inside and shut the doors after them, Charley winked
with slow deliberation at me. But I was only a youngster, and new to men
and the ways of some men, so I did not understand. Nor did Charley
explain, though I felt there was something wrong about the business.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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