“Come this way—over by the Murphy and McGlory shed. That's where it would have to be handled.”
Silently they tiptoed forward, reaching out with their hands, to avoid a collision with the projecting timbers. Once Beveridge tripped and would have fallen if Wilson had not caught his arm. “Wait—keep still, Bert!”
“It's all right. We're way back from the street here.”
“It isn't the street I'm watching. See that light?” He pointed up to a second-story window in the adjoining building. “She's still up; and it's awful quiet around here.”
A moment later Beveridge stopped and sniffed.
“What is it, Bill?”
“Don't you smell anything?”
“Ye-yes, guess I do, a little. But there are a lot of old kegs and bottles on the other side of the fence.”
“There are no old kegs about this.” He moved forward, feeling and sniffing his way along a pile of twelve-by-twelve timbers. “Here, have you that big jack-knife on you, Bert?”
“Yes; here it is.”