"He will loot the Metropolitan Museum," said this one, "but what will he do with the metropolitan police?"
"Well," said Mr. Lichtenstein, "I am only supposing. But suppose some fine night a building somewhere central was blown up with dynamite. Suppose the sound was so big that it could be heard in every part of greater New York. Suppose at the sound every policeman in greater New York was shot dead in his tracks--"
Bubbles's hair began to bristle. "Say," he cried in his excitement, "the straw hats--the soft straw hats that Blizzard makes and don't sell--they're the white cockades!"
Mr. Blicker guffawed. Mr. Lichtenstein rose and paced the room.
"And that proves," he exclaimed, "that nothing is to happen when you and I are wearing straw hats--but in winter. Bubbles, you're a bright boy!"
"You are both so bright," said Mr. Blicker, "you keep me all the time laughing."
"Well," said Mr. Lichtenstein, "that may be, but suppose you tell me why Blizzard makes straw hats and don't sell 'em. Tell me why he's dug such a great hole under his house with a passage leading to the river, and ships. Tell me why O'Hagan is drilling men in the West. Tell me why Blizzard has gone out of the white-slave business. It fetched him in a pretty penny."
"I think I can answer the last question," said Bubbles.
"Do then."
"I think," said the small boy, "that he's got some good in him somewhere, and I know he's dead gone on my Miss Ferris. I think he's ashamed o' some o' the things he's done."