A couple of minutes afterwards the bomb-case had passed through the hands of the dispenser of treacle, and had its stopper screwed in.
“And where are all those little surprise packets going?” asked Philip airily.
“To aeroplanes on the west front,” said kind Captain Traill. “We’re sending off a lot to-night. Perhaps that one”—and he pointed to the identical bomb which Philip had had a hand in filling—“will make a mess in Mannheim next week.”
“I hope so,” said Philip fervently.
The only thing, now that Philip had disposed of the razor-blade, that clouded his complete content was the fear that his passport would be granted him, and that he would have to make a journey to America. Happily no such unnerving calamity occurred, for a week later he received a polite intimation from the passport office that the object for which he wanted to go there did not seem of sufficient importance to warrant the granting of a permit; so, wreathed in smiles, he passed this letter over to Phœbe.
“There’s the end of that,” he said.
“Philistines! Barbarians!” she said indignantly.
“I suppose they are acting to the best of their judgment,” said he. “I dare say they have never heard of me.”
“My dear, don’t be so cynical,” said Phœbe.
“Well, well! Certainly I am bitterly disappointed.”