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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.


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