I said, "Why, you two-for-a-nickel imitation of a G-man—"
But Hank, unruffled as ever, said calmly, "Easy does it, Jim. Why, Mr. Grimper, I jest come back to gather up the stuff in my locker an' desk. It won't take me long."
Grimper said sourly, "We-e-ell, all right. But I'll have to go along with you. We can't afford to give strangers the run of the mill nowadays. Constant vigilance is our only defense against saboteurs and espionage agents, and there are valuable military stores within these gates."
"Strangers!" I spat disgustedly. "You've got a hell of a nerve, Grimper. Hank Cleaver volunteered his talents to this concern before you ever knew it existed—"
"Services," said Grimper coldly, "which ended today. And I should not be surprised, Mr. Blakeson, if yours were to be terminated soon. Well, come along."
So we entered the plant. And of course it was black as a whale's belly in there, but do you think Dopey Joe would let us turn on any lights? Oh, no! He had ideas about that, too. He was fuller of ideas than a Thanksgiving turkey is of chestnuts. He commanded, "You will use a flashlight, please. One never knows what prying eyes may be upon us."
"There are a couple of eyes," I glared, "I'd like to pry—with doubled pinkies. Hurry up, Hank. Get your things and let's scram out of here. There's a bad odor around here, and it's not oil fumes."
Hank emptied his desk drawers, and we picked our way down darkened corridors, through the machine-shop and turning room, toward the lockers. We had but one more room to cross: the drafting-room, wherein were stored all the blueprints and testing-models. We were halfway across this, our tiny flashlight beam a dim beacon before our stumbling feet, when—
Out of the gloom, suddenly, terrifyingly, a voice!