That evening, when he had seen the night-shift started, Emerson decided to walk up to Cherry's house, for he was worried over the day's developments and felt that an hour of the girl's society might serve to clear his thoughts. His nerves were high-strung from the tension of the past weeks, and he knew himself in the condition of an athlete trained to the minute. In his earlier days he had frequently felt the same nervousness, the same intense mental activity, just prior to an important race or game, and he was familiar with those disquieting, panicky moments when, for no apparent reason, his heart thumped and a physical sickness mastered him. He knew that the fever would leave him, once the salmon began to run, just as it had always vanished at the crack of the starter's pistol or the shrill note of the referee's whistle. He was eager for action, eager to find himself possessed of that gloating, gruelling fury that drives men through to the finish line. Meanwhile, he was anxious to divert his mind into other channels. Cherry's house was situated a short distance above the cannery which served as Willis Marsh's headquarters, and Boyd's path necessarily took him past his enemy's very stronghold. Finding the tide too high to permit of passing beneath the dock, he turned up among the buildings, where, to his surprise, he encountered his own day-foreman talking earnestly with a stranger. The fisherman started guiltily as he saw him, and Boyd questioned him sharply. "What are you doing here, Larsen?" "I just walked up after supper to have a talk with an old mate." "Who is he?" Boyd glanced suspiciously at Larsen's companion. "He's Mr. Marsh's foreman." Emerson spoke out bluntly: "See here. I don't like this. These people have caused me a lot of trouble already, and I don't want my men hanging around here." "Oh, that's all right," said Larsen, carelessly. "Him and me used to fish together." And as if this were a sufficient explanation, he turned back to his conversation, leaving Emerson to proceed on his way, vaguely displeased at the episode, yet reflecting that heretofore he had never had occasion to doubt Larsen's loyalty. He found Cherry at home, and, flinging himself into one of her easy-chairs, relieved his mind of the day's occurrences. "Marsh is building those traps purely out of spite," she declared, indignantly, when he had finished. "He doesn't need any more fish--he has plenty of traps farther up the river." "To be sure! It looks as if we might have to depend upon the gill-netters." "We will know before long. If the fish strike in where George expects, Marsh will be out a pretty penny." "And if they don't strike in where George expects, we will be out all the expense of building that trap." "Exactly! It's a fascinating business, isn't it? It's a business in which the unexpected is forever happening. But the stakes are high and--I know you will succeed."