The fire chief wanted chemical trucks sent in, as many as could be rounded up. The police chief wanted National Guardsmen, at least a battalion. The doctor wanted to know where the hell the goddam army field hospital was. It was an interesting fight and Mickey Groff was sorry when a trouble call came in and he and Murphy missed the end of it.
The man in the Legion cap said, "You best give me that gun, fella. I can handle it."
"So can I," said Mickey Groff. He wasn't nasty about it; but the man in the Legion cap shrugged and let it go. "This the place?" Groff asked as the car stopped.
"This is the place." The Legionnaire scowled worriedly. "They took all the boats across the river. You see anything over there?"
Groff got out of the car and looked. It was full dark now, and the river was wide. There were lights of some kind on the opposite bank, but he couldn't have told you what they were. Flashlights and electric lanterns, most likely.
But they looked a little bit close.
Groff ordered, "Turn the car to the right. Put the brights on." The Legionnaire cramped the wheels around and inched forward. He kicked the button of the highway-beam headlights.
"They're coming, all right," said Groff. Shapes were lying on the water, punctuated with hand lights.
"Sons of bitches," said the Legionnaire bitterly. "Now there'll be hell to pay. Four of us against every goddam goon on the river—and Harry and me ain't even got guns."