Larry made up his mind to do so, and on his journey down he stopped to inquire at several public wharves. At one, though he walked some distance inside the shed covering it, he met no alert watchman to stop him.
“This is queer,” mused the young reporter. “I thought the watchmen were supposed not to allow any strangers on the docks.”
He went on a little farther through the long, dark shed, and, as he approached a pile of merchandise, that had evidently been unloaded from some boat, he heard a voice whisper in tense tones:
“Cheese it! Here comes some one!”
Instantly there was a movement, and then all was still.
“Something wrong here,” decided Larry. “I wonder if it could be the men I want? If I only had some sort of a light!”
He paused, listening intently, but all he could hear was the lapping of the water against the piling under the dock. He fancied he could hear the breathing of some one concealed by the pile of boxes and barrels, but he was not sure.
A moment later he heard footsteps approaching, and then he saw the gleam of a swinging lantern.
“The watchman at last,” mused Larry. “But I shouldn’t wonder but what there were thieves hidden on this dock, unless those who spoke were the ones I’m after.”
“Well, what do you want?” asked the watchman sharply, as he saw Larry. “What are you doing here?”