"What about Rudolph Klein? He was a nephew, wasn't he?"

"Fired," said Hutchinson laconically. "Got to spreading the brotherhood
of the world idea--sweat brothers, he calls them. But he was mighty
careful never to get in a perspiration himself."

"We might try Herman again. But I'd keep an eye on him."

So Herman was taken on at the new munition plant. He was a citizen,
he owned property, he had a record of long service behind him. And, at
first, he was minded to preserve that record intact. While he had by
now added to his rage against the Fatherland's enemies a vast and sullen
fury against invested capital, his German caution still remained.

He would sit through fiery denunciations of wealth, nodding his head
slowly in agreement. He was perfectly aware that in Gus's little back
room dark plots were hatched. Indeed, on a certain April night Rudolph
had come up and called him onto the porch.

"In about fifteen minutes," he said, consulting his watch in the
doorway, "I'm going to show you something pretty."

And in fifteen minutes to the dot the great railroad warehouses near the
city wharf had burst into flames. Herman had watched without comment,
while Rudolph talked incessantly, boasting of his share in the
enterprise.

"About a million dollars' worth of fireworks there," he said, as the
glare dyed their faces red. "All stuff for the Allies." And he boasted,
"When the cat sits on the pickhandle, brass buttons must go."