Half an hour’s ride brought them to the lively suburban city of Harrisonia, gay with flags and bunting. From the railroad station, where the guest of honor was to be met by the old coach, to the spot where the civic statue awaited its unveiling at his hands, was about half a mile along Harrison Avenue, the principal street. The walk along this street developed nothing of interest to Average Jones until they reached the statue. Here he paused to look curiously at a number of square platforms built out from windows in the business blocks.
“For flash-light outfits,” explained Waldemar. “One of them is our paper’s.”
“Flash-lights, eh?” said Average Jones. “And there’ll be fireworks and the air will be full of light and noise, under cover of which almost anything might be done. I don’t like it! Hello! What’s here?”
He turned to the glass front of a prosperous-looking cigar store on the south side of the avenue and pointed to a shattered hole in the window. Behind it a bullet swung on a thread from the ceiling, and this agent of disaster the proprietor had ingeniously turned to account in advertising, by the following placard:
AIM LOWER
If you expect to shoot holes in our prices.
WE CHALLENGE OUR COMPETITION
“Not bad,” approved Average Jones. “I feel a great yearning to smoke—”
They entered the store and were served by the proprietor. As he was making change, Average Jones asked:
“When was the bombardment?”
“Night before last, some time,” replied the man.
“Done by a deflected bullet, wasn’t it?”