“For Gawd’s sake,” Morecombre said, staring, “he wouldn’t do that?”
Quentin shrugged. “He might. Then there is Miss Arnold here. She’s in rather a difficult position. Apparently the General has got ideas about her—ideas which will take a little checking.”
Myra shivered. “What am I going to do?” she asked.
“That’s what we’ve got to think about. Did you bring a gun with you, Bill?”
Morecombre nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “I always carry one. Did you?”
Quentin patted his pocket. “I don’t say we’ll get anywhere with rough stuff, but it’s nice to know, in case we have to start something.” He went to the window and looked down at the deserted waterfront. “No one about,” he said. “It looks as if something is blowing up. You can’t hear a sound. I’m willing to bet that any moment the lid’s coming off.”
Morecombre crossed over and stood just behind him, looking over his shoulder. Myra hesitated, put her coffee-cup down and joined them.
Quentin said unemotionally, “Look, it’s starting”—he pointed down. “Good God, Bill, we ought to be down there. We ought to get to a telephone. Look over there. Do you see those guys coming out of that house? Look, they’re carrying rifles. They’re not soldiers… they’re dockers. Dockers with rifles…. I told you how it’d be. There they go. Nothing’s going to happen until they run into the soldiers… that’s when the lid will come off.”
“Anyway, I can get pictures,” Morecombre said. “I’m mighty glad I brought the telescopic attachment with me.” He rushed across the room and feverishly began setting up his camera.
Myra edged closer to Quentin. “Do you really think there will be fighting?” she asked.