“I wonder!”
Mr. Dunbar reached into his breast pocket, and produced a long typed memorandum.
“You might just glance at that.”
Clayton read it carefully. It was a list of fires, mostly in granaries and warehouses, and the total loss was appalling.
“All German work,” said his visitor. “Arson, for the Fatherland. All supplies for the Allies, you see. I've got other similar lists, here, all German deviltry. And they're only commencing. If we go into the war—”
The immediate result of the visit was that Clayton became a member of a protective league which undertook, with his cooperation, to police and guard the mill. But Mr. Dunbar's last words left him thinking profoundly.
“We're going to be in it, that's sure. And soon. And Germany's army is here. It's not only Germans either. It's the I.W.W., for one thing. We've got a list through the British post-office censor, of a lot of those fellows who are taking German money to-day. They're against everything. Not only work. They're against law and order. And they're likely to raise hell.”
He rose to leave.
“How do your Germans like making shells for the Allies?” he asked.
“We haven't a great many. We've had no trouble. One man resigned—a boss roller. That's all.”