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Code made a trumpet of his hands. "Here, cookee, roll up a tub of

that bait lively. I want to look at it. And fetch the hammer!"

A suspicion based upon a long-forgotten fact had suddenly leaped

into his mind.

When the cook hove the tub of bait on deck Code knocked off the

top boards with the hammer and dipped up a handful of the clams.

Instead of the firm, fat shellfish that should have been in the

clean brine, he found them loose and rotten. This time he himself

detected a faint acrid odor quite different from the usual clean,

salty smell. Again he dipped to make sure the whole tub was

ruined. Then he looked at Ellinwood in despair.

"It's acid, Pete," he said. "My father told me about this sort of

thing being done sometimes in a close race among bankers for the

last load of fish. If they're all like this we're done for until

we can get more."

Ellinwood looked at him in amazement, his jaw sagging.

"Well, who in thunder would do this?"

Code laughed bitterly.