Having turned Dunbar and his protective league over to Hutchinson, the
general manager, Clayton had put him out of his mind. But during the
week after Christmas he reached the office early one morning to find
that keen and rather shabby gentleman already there, waiting.
Not precisely waiting, for he was standing by one of the windows, well
back from it, and inspecting the mill yard with sharp, darting glances.
"Hello, Dunbar," said Clayton, and proceeded to shed his fur-lined
coat. Dunbar turned and surveyed him with the grudging admiration of the
undersized man for the tall one.
"Cold morning," he said, coming forward. "Not that I suppose you know
it." He glanced at the coat.
"I thought Hutchinson said that you'd gone away."
"Been to Washington. I brought something back that will interest you."
From inside his coat he produced a small leather case, and took from it
a number of photographs.
"I rather gathered, Mr. Spencer," he said dryly, "when I was here last
that you thought me an alarmist. I don't know that I blame you. We
always think the other fellow may get it, but that we are safe. You
might glance at those photographs."
He spread them out on the desk. Beyond the windows the mill roared
on; men shouted, the locomotive whistled, a long file of laborers
with wheelbarrows went by. And from a new building going up came the
hammering of the riveting-machines, so like the rapid explosions of
machine guns.
"Interesting, aren't they?" queried Dunbar. "This is a clock-bomb with
a strap for carrying it under a coat. That's a lump of coal--only it
isn't. It's got enough explosive inside to blow up a battleship.
It's meant for that, primarily. That's fire-confetti--damnable
stuff--understand it's what burned up most of Belgium. And that's a
fountain-pen. What do you think of that? Use one yourself, don't you?
Don't leave it lying around. That's all."
"What on earth can they do with a fountain-pen?"
"One of their best little tricks," said Mr. Dunbar, with a note of
grudging admiration in his voice. "Here's a cut of the mechanism. You
sit down, dip your pen, and commence to write. There's the striking pin,
or whatever they call it. It hits here, and--good night!"
"Do you mean to say they're using things like that here?"
"I mean to say they're planning to, if they haven't already. That coal
now, you'd see that go into your furnaces, or under your boilers, or
wherever you use it, and wouldn't worry, would you?"