“I don’t suppose you will,” said Ernest. “See you tomorrow—some of you, anyway,” he added, looking strangely at Fatty; and followed by Frank, he went away.
“I think he’s nutty,” said Fat, taking a cake of sweet chocolate out of his pocket and breaking it in two. He laid half of it on the table. “Have a piece,” he offered and rapidly ate the remaining half.
Alone with Frank, Ernest’s manner changed.
“Have you seen the noon edition of the paper?” he demanded. “The postal authorities have held up three more packages of bombs, and they think they are being sent either from this city or Cincinnati. The Mayor of Boston, who received the infernal machine yesterday, may possibly live and his wife is out of danger. Nice state of affairs, isn’t it? Do you know what? If I wasn’t under government contract as instructor out there at Knox, I would be a detective. I bet I could run some of these snakes to cover!”
“It is awful, all right,” agreed Frank, “but what did you mean by telling those boys to take whatever came along?”
“I don’t know. Honest, I don’t,” said Ernest, “but I had the queerest feeling when I saw that dinky club room. Something sort of came over me. I don’t know what.”
“Mercy, mercy!” said Frank. “You are getting malaria out there at Knox; that’s what ails you. Come on in. I’ll ask mother for the quinine.”
“All right, let’s have the quinine. I hope it is malaria that ails me, because I feel just as though something was going to happen. I don’t know what.”
“I reckon you don’t,” said Frank, laughing. “Of all the chronic glooms, you are the gloomiest! For goodness’ sake, let the kids fool with their wireless in peace. All they will scoop in will be somebody’s love letter to somebody else. Everything is all right.”
Ernest laughed. “I am silly,” he acknowledged. “Perhaps it was the sad sight of that innocent child Bascom committing slow suicide.”