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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?"
"Are these actual photographs?"
"Made from articles taken from a German officer's trunk, in a neutral
country. He was on his way somewhere, I imagine."
Clayton sat silent. Then he took out his fountain-pen and surveyed
it with a smile.
"Rather off fountain-pens for a time, I take it!" observed Dunbar.
"Well, I've something else for you. You've got one of the best
little I.W.W. workers in the country right here in your mill. Some
of them aren't so bad - hot air and nothing else. But this fellow's
a fanatic. Which is the same as saying he's crazy."
"Who is he?"
"Name's Rudolph Klein. He's a sort of relation to the chap that
got out.


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