"You hold that while I do a bit of sketching," he said, fidgeting in his
coat-pocket for his fountain-pen. He then snapped open the flap of the
note-book and began to sketch rapidly as they moved forward. Cleek was an
adept in drawing to scale. The thing took shape as they continued their
progress, keeping this time to the left instead of to the right. Cleek
paced off the distance and stopped every now and then to check up
results.
The place was as silent as the grave. Obviously no one was about here
upon these nights when there was no loading and unloading going on. In
that, at least, chance had been a good friend to them. They were going
to make the most of it. Through little runways, narrower than the main
route, and so low that they had to bend their necks to get along in
safety, they went, measuring and examining. Every few yards or so they
would come upon another little niche, stacked high with sacks of a
similar hardness to those others back there at the beginning of their
journey. Cleek prodded one with his finger, hesitated, then slipping out
a penknife, slit a fragment of the coarse sacking and inserted his
thumb.
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