"Needs oil, I guess. The master mechanic would give me the dickens if she knew how long I've run without filling the cups," he chuckled.
Forward under the half-deck he kept a gallon can. Now he got upon his hands and knees and crawled part way into the dark hole, groping ahead of him as he went.
There was nothing tidy or methodical in the arrangement of his ship's stores, so he spent a full minute, feeling about, before his hand came in contact with the oil-can. Then as he was backing from his cramped quarters a scraping sound attracted his attention. Another launch had touched the wharf. Something impelled the boatman to remain quietly where he lay in the bottom of his craft. Perhaps it was the guarded note in the voice of a man who was talking.
"I knew it wouldn't do any good to go out to-night," said the voice.
"Well, it helped us to get the lay of the place a bit at any rate," answered a second voice.
"But I don't believe the stuff is coming out through Gananoque at all. And I'm not satisfied that it's coming in here, either."
"Where do you think it's coming from?"
"Kingston."
"That wasn't the tip from Washington."
"I know that. But Kingston's a lot more likely. It's bigger, and that's some advantage when you don't want folks to notice you too much."