Tom shrugged his shoulders in disgust, and said: "Those blamed drinks."
Another boom! from outside. The door opened behind Tom and a telegraph official looked in. "One, two," he counted, "two are there," and then he closed the door again.
Downstairs in the street a motor-cycle hurried past puffing and rattling, the rider's figure looking like a gigantic elusive shadow through the fog.
Tom started to walk up and down again as the clock in the hall struck a quarter to five. A bell rung in the next room. Steps were heard coming up the stairs and a colleague of the other two came in, swearing at the fog. He passed Johnny, poured out some of the latter's tea for himself and drank it, meanwhile looking at the sleeper inquiringly.
"It's the drinks," said Tom, grinning.
"H'm," growled the other. Another motor-cycle went by on the street below, and then another.
Later on a group of ten motor-cycles rode past.
"Did you see that, Harry?" asked Tom, who was standing at the window.
"What?"
"Didn't they have guns?"