But the unexpected happened, and Boyd's black mood vanished in amazement at the sight which met his eyes. Moored to the fish-dock was a lighter awash with a cargo that made him stare and doubt his vision. He had seen his scanty crew of gill-netters return empty-handed with the rising sun, exhausted, disheartened, depleted in numbers; yet there before him were thousands of salmon. They were strewn in a great mass upon the dock and inside the shed, while from the scow beneath they came in showers as the handlers tossed them upward from their pues. Through the wide doors he saw the backs of the butchers busily at work over their tables, and heard the uproar of his cannery running full for the first time. Before the launch had touched, he had leaped to the ladder and swung himself upon the dock. He stumbled into the arms of Big George. "Where--did those--fish come from?" he cried, breathlessly. "From the trap." George smiled as he had not smiled in many weeks. "They've struck in like I knew they would, and they're running now by the thousands. I've fished these waters for years, but I never seen the likes of it. They'll tear that trap to pieces. They're smothering in the pot, tons and tons of 'em, with millions more milling below the leads because they can't get in. It's a sight you'll not see once in a lifetime." "That means that we can run the plant--that we'll get all we can use?" "Hell! We've got fish enough to run two canneries. They've struck their gait I tell you, and they'll never stop now night or day till they're through. We don't need no gill-netters; what we need is butchers and slimers and handlers. There never was a trap site in the North till this one; I told Willis Marsh that years ago." He flung out a long, hairy arm, bared half to the shoulder, and waved it exultantly. "We built this plant to cook forty thousand salmon a day, but I'll bring you three thousand every hour, and you've got to cook 'em. Do you hear?" "And they couldn't cork us, after all!" Emerson leaned unsteadily against a pile, for his head was whirling. "No! We'll show that gang what a cannery can do. Marsh's traps will rot where they stand." Big George shook his tight-clinched fist again. "We've won, my boy! We've won!" "Then don't let us stand here talking!" cried Emerson, sharply. "Hurry! Hurry!" He turned, and sped up the dock. He had come into his own at last, and he vowed with tight-shut teeth that no wheel should stop, no belt should slacken, no man should leave his duty till the run had passed. At the entrance to the throbbing, clanging building he paused an instant, and with a smile looked toward the yacht floating lazily in the distance. Then, with knees sagging beneath him from weariness, he entered. CHAPTER XXV THE CLASH "I've heard the news!" cried Cherry, later that afternoon, shrieking to make herself heard above the rattle and jar of the machinery. "There seems to be a Providence that watches over fishermen," said Boyd.