From the companionway came the steady sound of footfalls. There was an authoritative sound to them as they echoed in the deserted passage, coming nearer and nearer. It was not the second shift of stokers.
“Shh,” said Tom’s brother, clutching his arm. “If they should come here keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking. They ain’t got anything on me,” he added in a hoarse whisper which bespoke his terror, “unless you—shhh!”
“I know what it is,” Tom whispered, “and I ain’t a-scared. They got a signal from the destroyer. They know the room.”
“There’s nothing they can find here,” his brother breathed. “They were all through here last night. Put that dish down—put it down, I tell you! Shh!”
Tom let go of the plate, scarcely knowing what he did.
Nearer, nearer, came the footsteps and stopped. The door was thrown open and in the passage stood the captain, a sailor and the officer who had spoken to Tom the night before.
Tom’s heart was in his throat; he did not move a muscle. What happened seemed all a jumble to him, like things in a dream. He was aware of a lantern held by the officer and of the sailor standing by the porthole, over which he had spread something black.
“Did you know this kid was mixed up in it?” the sailor asked. Tom felt that the sailor must be a Secret Service man.
“They’re brothers,” said the captain. “You can see that.”
“He had him posted for a lookout,” said the officer. “He was watching on the deck last night.” Then, turning upon Tom he said brusquely, “you were supposed to hurry down here with the tip if the convoy signaled, eh?”