John Vassar ground his teeth and set his firm jaw to prevent an outburst of mad protest. As chairman of the House Committee of Military Affairs he knew that every statement in this subtle demagogue’s appeal was but half truth, and for that reason the most dangerous lie. The navy was more efficient than ever before—so was every navy in the world. Our navy was still utterly inadequate to defend us against any first-class combination of Europe or any single power of the rank of Germany. Our coast guns were good, but a hostile navy triumphant at sea would never come in range of them. They would land at their leisure at any one of a hundred undefended harbors and take our forts from the rear. We could manufacture ammunition—but to no purpose, because we have few guns for field artillery and not enough trained artillerymen to man them if we had the guns. It takes years to train the masters of war machinery. A million men could be raised between the suns, but they would be mowed down by fields of hidden artillery beyond the range of our gunners before we could get in sight.
There was no escape from the deep conviction that the cold-blooded thinker who was smiling into the face of this crowd knew these facts with a knowledge even clearer than his own.
What was the sinister motive back of that frozen smile?
Again and again Vassar asked himself the question. He was still puzzling over the mystery of Waldron’s motive when a ringing cheer burst from the crowd and Zonia pressed his arm.
“There she is, Uncy—there she is!”
Waldron was leading to the rail a blushing girl.
“No, no—sweetheart—that’s someone else—can’t be the Amazon—”
“Of course, you silly—she’s not an Amazon—she’s my heroine. Isn’t she a darling? Now honestly?”
Vassar was too dumfounded to make reply.
Waldron was introducing her, the same cold smile on his thin lips, the same metallic click of his voice.