“The chief and the first assistants up on deck; third and fourth and head fireman are down there, and two electricians. The carpenter’s there, too.”
“Well, they didn’t find anything, anyway,” said Tom. “Is that all they did?”
“Did? They opened every room on their way back and searched every nook and corner. Not so much as a pipe or a cigarette or a cigar could they find—nor a whiff of smoke neither. Besides, the port windows were locked shut and the steward had the keys! They’re takin’ no chances in the zone, you can bet.”
“I was thinking, if it was a spy or anyone like that, he might have had a flashlight,” said Tom, “and thrown it out if he heard anyone coming.”
“With the glass locked shut?”
“No, that spoils it,” said Tom.
“They searched every bloomin’ one of ’em,” said the deck steward. “Charlie was two hours making up the berths again after the way they threw things around. But nothing doing. They found a mess plate with a little black spot on it and he said they thought it might have been from a match-end being laid there, but I heard they told the captain there was nothing wrong down there.”
“What made them think there was?” asked Tom.
The deck steward shrugged his shoulders. “You can search me. But they’re mighty particular, huh?”
He went about his duties, leaving Tom to ponder on this interesting news, and though admittedly nothing had come of that stealthy raid which had exposed neither rule breakers nor spies, still Tom thought about it all day, more or less, and he was glad that Uncle Sam was so watchful and thorough. It made him realize, all the more, how absurd and preposterous it would be for him, the captain’s mess boy, to concern himself or ask questions or say anything about serious matters which were none of his business.