“Two of these are momentums—no, mementos,” said Charlie. “I’ve been spoiling the Egyptians. Spoiled some six or eight, I guess—and a couple more soured on the job. That’ll keep. Tell you to-morrow. Let’s go!”
“Vait! Vait!” said Preisser. “Go by my place—I’ll gome vith you so far—science shall aid your brude force. Perrault and me, you say, ve stay here. Ve are not vit to sed in der vorevront of battles—vat? Good! Then ve vill send to represend us my specimens. I haf two lufly specimens of abblied psygology, galgulated to haf gontrolling influence vith a mob at the—ah, yes!—the zoölogical moment! You vill see, you vill say I am quide righdt! Gome on!”
“And they aim to get here sudden and soon?” Mr. George Gwinne smiled on his three visitors benevolently. “That’s good. We won’t have long to wait. I hate waiting. Bad for the nerves. Well, let’s get a wiggle. What you got in that box, Spinal? Dynamite?”
Spinal grinned happily.
“Ho! Dynamite? My, you’re the desprit character, ain’t you? Dynamite? Not much. Old stuff, and it shoots both ways. We’re up-to-date, we are. This here box, Mr. Gwinne—we have in this box the last straw that broke the camel’s back. Listen!”
He held up the box. Gwinne listened. His smile broadened. He sat down suddenly and—the story hates to tell this—Mr. Gwinne giggled. It was an unseemly exhibition, particularly from a man so large as Mr. Gwinne.
“Going to give Dines a gun?” inquired Hamilton.
Mr. Gwinne wiped his eyes. “No. That wouldn’t be sensible. They’d spring a light on us, see Dines, shoot Dines, and go home. But they don’t want to lynch us and they’ll hesitate about throwing the first shot. We’ll keep Dines where he is.”