Cal came in, lighted the kerosene lamp, and then came over to the bunks.
With a single jerk he ripped the adhesive from Ken’s mouth, and then bent to do the same for Sandy.
“That’s so you can say your prayers,” he told them with a laugh. “Yell ’em out loud if you want to. Nobody’s going to hear you now.” He seemed enormously amused at the idea.
Ken worked his jaws a moment. He felt as if Cal had ripped off several layers of skin along with the tape.
Cal was pouring himself a cup of coffee from his apparently bottomless pot.
“Where are we going?” Ken asked evenly.
“Where are you going?” Cal threw back his head to laugh again. “Well, now, there’s lots of answers to that question.” He took a long swallow of coffee. “Sailors sometimes call it Davy Jones’s locker. Other folks have different names for it. But whatever you call it, it’s mighty wet and a long way down.”
Then, still laughing, he finished the coffee and went back outside, slamming the door heavily behind himself.
“He’s lying,” Sandy said quickly, from the lower bunk.
“Sure,” Ken agreed. “Remember when Dad was talking about counterfeiters that day at the office? He said they usually printed a lot of bills at one time, before they distributed any of it. Then, when they had all they were going to make, they distributed it all over the country at one clip—and by that time their printing equipment and everything else was dismantled and scattered. So even if the bills were identified, there was nothing that would tie the counterfeiters up to them.”