"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?"

"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."