“Here?” Sandy’s jaw dropped. “Where are you expecting to find the printing press? In the coffeepot?”
Ken, peering under the bunks, muttered, “Nothing but a couple of life belts.” He turned and began to scan the rough surface of the floor.
“Look,” Sandy began impatiently, “if you can’t—”
He broke off as Ken shoved his nose close to the floor, studying one particular plank. Without looking up he reached onto the table for a fork from the cutlery box. He jammed its tines into the crack alongside the plank and pressed down on the handle. The plank lifted.
Ken pulled it upward and it rose easily—a length of ten-inch-wide board. He whistled softly.
Sandy dropped onto his knees beside him. Together they peered into the cavity that had been exposed.
“Printing ink,” Ken said, lifting out one of the several bottles visible. “Green.” He checked another. “And black.”
Sandy had his hand beneath the floor too, his anger with Ken lost in curiosity. “A portable printing press!” he breathed. “Dismantled—but you can see that’s what it is!” He looked over at Ken, his eyes round. “I humbly apologize for—”
Ken had lifted something else out of the cache.
Sandy gasped.