“One of their best little tricks,” said Mr. Dunbar, with a note of grudging admiration in his voice. “Here's a cut of the mechanism. You sit down, dip your pen, and commence to write. There's the striking pin, or whatever they call it. It hits here, and—good night!”
“Do you mean to say they're using things like that here?”
“I mean to say they're planning to, if they haven't already. That coal now, you'd see that go into your furnaces, or under your boilers, or wherever you use it, and wouldn't worry, would you?”
“Are these actual photographs?”
“Made from articles taken from a German officer's trunk, in a neutral country. He was on his way somewhere, I imagine.”
Clayton sat silent. Then he took out his fountain-pen and surveyed it with a smile.
“Rather off fountain-pens for a time, I take it!” observed Dunbar. “Well, I've something else for you. You've got one of the best little I.W.W. workers in the country right here in your mill. Some of them aren't so bad—hot air and nothing else. But this fellow's a fanatic. Which is the same as saying he's crazy.”
“Who is he?”
“Name's Rudolph Klein. He's a sort of relation to the chap that got out. Old man's been sore on him, but I understand he's hanging around the Klein place again.”
Clayton considered.