Nicky was in a flurry. The fire in Davidge’s eyes told him that Davidge was looking for him. There was a dull sound in the hitherto silent ship of some one running.
Nicky grew hysterical with wrath. To be caught at the very outset of his elaborate campaign was maddening. He opened his suit-case, took out from the protecting wadding a small iron death-machine and held it in readiness. A noble plan had entered his brain for rescuing his dream.
Nuddle, glancing over the side, recognized Davidge and told Nicky who it was that came. When Davidge reached the top deck, he found Nicky smiling with the affability of a floorwalker.
“Meester Davitch––please, one momend. I holt in my hant a little machine to blow us all high-sky if you are so unkind to be impolite. You move––I srow. We all go up togedder in much pieces. Better it is you come with me and make no trouble, and then I let you safe your life. You agree, yes? Or must I srow?”
Davidge looked at the bomb, at Nicky, at Nuddle, then at Mamise. Life was sweet here on this high steel crag, with the cheers of the crowds about the stands coming faintly up on the delicious breeze. He knew explosives. He had seen them work. He could see what that handful of lightning in Nicky’s grasp would do to this mountain he had built.
Life was sweet where the limpid river spread its indolent floods far and wide. And Mamise was beautiful. The one thing not sweet and not beautiful was the triumph of this sardonic Hun.
Davidge pondered but did not speak.
With all the superiority of the Kultured German for the untutored Yankee, Nicky said, “Vell?”
Perhaps it was the V that did it. For Davidge, without a word, went for him.