“Right! Up you come. And now, clear out, all of you!” The officer waved a hand at the crowd that, like a fade-out in the movies, vanished into the fog.
“All—all right, we’re off.” Jimmie swayed dizzily, then, with the grip of a strong hand on his arm, made his way slowly back across the bridge.
At the far side of the bridge they halted for a moment at a call-box.
“What did you say your name was?” asked the officer absent-mindedly.
“Jimmie Drury, of the Press.”
“Ah, yes, of the Press,” the officer mumbled. Then, into the receiver, “That you, Mike? This is Denny Sullivan. And is Tom Howe there? He is? That’s good. Put him on the wire.”
There was a moment’s wait during which Jimmie ran his fingers carefully over something black and hard hanging at his belt, then indulged in a sigh of satisfaction.
“That you, Tom?” the officer boomed. “This is Denny Sullivan.”
“Yes, Denny.”
“Say. There’s a boy here. I picked him up on the bridge a bit ago. Says you’re to come to the Press offices, sixth floor by the elevator. What do you know about that?”