"Well, anyway"--he turned again to the proprietor--"they'll let us see that famous signal tower up on top of the Rock. Mother, they say from that tower up there, they can keep tabs on a ship sixty miles away. Fellow down at the consulate was telling me just this morning that's the king-pin of the whole works. Harbor's full of mines and things; electric switch in the signal tower. Press a switch up there, and everything in the harbor--Blam!" He shot his hands above his head to denote the cataclysm. Almer smiled sardonically and drew the Illinois citizen to one side. "I would give you a piece of advice," he said in a low voice. "It is----" "Say, proprietor; you don't charge for advice, do you?" Sherman regarded him quizzically. "It is this," Almer went on, unperturbed: "If I were you I would not talk much about the fortifications of the Rock. Even talk is--ah--dangerous if too much indulged." "Huh! I guess you're right," said Sherman thoughtfully. "You see--we don't know much about diplomacy out where I come from. Though that ain't stopping any of the Democrats from going abroad in the Diplomatic Service as fast as Bryan'll take 'em." Interruption came startlingly. A sergeant and three soldiers with guns swung through the open doors from Waterport Street. Gun butts struck the floor with a heavy thud. The sergeant stepped forward and saluted Almer with a businesslike sweep of hand to visor. "See here, landlord!" the sergeant spoke up briskly. "Fritz, the barber, lives here, does he not?" Almer nodded. "We want him. Find him in the barber shop, eh?" The sergeant turned and gave directions to the guard. They tramped through a swinging door by the side of the desk while the Shermans, parents and daughter alike, looked on, with round eyes. In less than a minute, the men in khaki returned, escorting a quaking man in white jacket. The barber, greatly flustered, protested in English strongly reminiscent of his fatherland. "Orders to take you, Fritz," the sergeant explained not unkindly. "But I haf done nothing," the barber cried. "For ten years I haf shaved you. You know I am a harmless old German." The sergeant shrugged. "I fancy they think you are working for the Wilhelmstrasse, Fritz, and they want to have you where they can keep their eyes on you. Sorry, you know." The free-born instincts of Henry J. Sherman would not be downed longer. He had witnessed the little tragedy of the German barber with growing ire, and now he stepped up to the sergeant truculently. "Seems to me you're not giving Fritz here a square deal, if you want to know what I think," he blustered. "Now, in my country----" The sergeant turned on him sharply. "Who are you--and what are you doing in Gib?" he snapped. A moan from Mrs. Sherman, who threw herself in her daughter's arms. [Illustration: "Who are you?" snapped the sergeant.] "Kitty, your father's gone and got himself arrested again!"