Beveridge was standing at the shore end of the pier waiting for Wilson, fish-pole on shoulder, to approach. “Well, what luck, Bert?”
Wilson held up a small string of perch. “Fair. It's too late in the day to catch many.”
“Going up to the house?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
Then their voices dropped.
“Where will you be, Bill?”
“In the park here, by the road. You 'll be back early?”
“Yes, soon as I can make the arrangements.”
“You have spoken to them at headquarters?”
“Yes.”