With dusk softening the hard outlines of the shipyard, Tim descended into the interior of the S-18, where the bright glow of the electrics dispelled the gloom.
“Ford send you back to keep me company or is he afraid we may have visitors?” asked Pat as they placed Tim’s duffle in the crew’s quarters.
“Both. He isn’t going to take any chances on accidents if it can be avoided. The watchman at the main gate told me that strict orders had been issued to admit no one after six o’clock.” Pat nodded toward the river. “They’ll come from there if they come. Have you got a gun?” Tim pulled a sturdy .38 revolver from his traveling bag.
Pat whistled. “That’s a real popgun. How about a permit to carry it? You don’t want to run into trouble in New York.”
From his billfold Tim produced the small card which identified him as a member of the state police of his own state.
“Say, what are you,” asked Pat incredulously, “A reporter or a policeman?”
“I’m a reporter first of all, but once or twice I’ve had to serve as a policeman,” grinned Tim.
“Well, officer, let’s have that grub,” said Pat, opening the packages Tim had brought.
They lowered another bunk and spread the food out on it.
“Gosh, but this tastes good,” Pat said. “I forgot all about getting anything this noon.”