With dusk softening the hard outlines of the shipyard, Tim descended into the interior of the _S-18_, where the bright glow of the electrics dispelled the gloom. "Ford send you back to keep me company or is he afraid we may have visitors?" asked Pat as they placed Tim's duffle in the crew's quarters. "Both. He isn't going to take any chances on accidents if it can be avoided. The watchman at the main gate told me that strict orders had been issued to admit no one after six o'clock." Pat nodded toward the river. "They'll come from there if they come. Have you got a gun?" Tim pulled a sturdy .38 revolver from his traveling bag. Pat whistled. "That's a real popgun. How about a permit to carry it? You don't want to run into trouble in New York." From his billfold Tim produced the small card which identified him as a member of the state police of his own state. "Say, what are you," asked Pat incredulously, "A reporter or a policeman?" "I'm a reporter first of all, but once or twice I've had to serve as a policeman," grinned Tim. "Well, officer, let's have that grub," said Pat, opening the packages Tim had brought. They lowered another bunk and spread the food out on it. "Gosh, but this tastes good," Pat said. "I forgot all about getting anything this noon." They were both the possessors of hearty appetites and between them they cleaned up every bit of food Tim had brought aboard. Pat leaned back against the steel wall. "Anyone could come aboard now and steal the _S-18_. I'm so full of food I wouldn't be able to move." "I feel about the same way," conceded Tim. But despite their sluggishness no disaster befell the _S-18_ and after a time they bestirred themselves to make a final tour of inspection of the submarine. Across the East river gleamed the millions of lights of Manhattan, and Tim, fascinated, stared at the majestic scene. A tramp steamer, outward bound for some distant port, hooted dismally as it swung down stream. Lights in the boatyard itself were few and far between and there was a distinct feeling of isolation to the flying reporter on the deck of the _S-18_. While Tim was on deck, Pat closed all of the doors between the forward compartments, then joined Tim in front of the conning tower. "I'm not looking for any trouble," he said, "but I've made everything tight. The only possible entrance will be through the main hatch and I'm going to fix up a bunk and sleep in the control room." They went below and rigged makeshift beds on the steel floor below the conning tower. Pat found a trouble light with a long extension cord and he placed this on the deck outside the main hatch. With the lights off in the control room, it would be impossible for anyone to get down the hatch without being silhouetted in the glow of the electric on the deck. "I guess we can go to sleep without much worry now," said Pat, kicking off his shoes and rolling into his blankets.