The cook of the S-18 had been badly beaten and Tim realized that he was in need of immediate medical attention. He managed to get the unconscious Hardy over his shoulders and he staggered down the block until he was under the street light.
Glancing up and down the street, Tim saw that he was alone. He lowered the cook from his shoulders and laid him on the walk under the light. Then he raced down the street toward a cluster of lights several blocks away, where he was fortunate enough to find a night patrolman on duty there and the officer summoned an ambulance.
When the ambulance reached the lonely street, they bundled the cook aboard and Tim climbed up in the front seat beside the driver while the interne rode inside.
It was after midnight before the cook regained consciousness and another two hours before he was strong enough to see Tim.
When the flying reporter entered the hospital room the cook looked out at him from beneath a mass of bandages.
“He’s got lots of endurance,” said the doctor on duty, “or he wouldn’t have been able to live through the terrific beating he got. Don’t talk to him any longer than necessary.”
Tim sat down by the bed.
“Tell me what happened, Al.”
The cook’s voice was little more than a whisper and Tim leaned over to catch the words.
“I was on my way back to the wharf, when they ganged me and dragged me into a deserted warehouse.”