"Whew! oh whew!" whistled Mr. Bombs; "and so you have all that patriotic fervor on your hands! Shall we make a bonfire of it tomorrow as a starter to their lagging patriotism?" "Not unless we go a-fishing," laughed Schwarmer, beckoning him aside. "You know how a thing of that kind turns when the sediments are all stirred up so to speak. A lot of cranks seized the fireworks and dumped them all into the river! They fancied they were our forefathers, I suppose, dumping the English tea into Boston Harbor--the knaves!" "Zounds!" exclaimed Mr. Bombs. "That was a steep proceeding. How high do you suppose it will climb?" "K. K.," replied Schwarmer. "Probably until the attention is called off by some new thing--very new and of more dazzling proportions--like those new inventions of yours--for instance." "I understand! Good! Good! Nero is himself again. The siege of Yorktown! The Battle of Gettysburg! and Johnny Bull's Bellows to offset Pang's Eagle Screams! Eh, Schwarmer!" added Bombs in a low tone, giving him a sly poke in the ribs; "and money made out of them. That's better than giving away things to an ungrateful public. They can't throw Yorktown into the river if they should try. You are a trump, Schwarmer." That ended the business for Schwarmer. There was nothing that pleased him better than being called a trump. He had not really intended to make a business proposition; but the shrewd would-be million-maker and son of a million-maker had construed it into that meaning, and it was understood to be an unwritten bargain between them. Thereupon a great silence fell upon the spirit of Alfonso Bombs. He was resting in rich security--the kind of security he liked. The $10,000,000 that for a few brief moments seemed jeopardized would eventually flow into the great Bombs' coffers and the time would come when he would be more envied than the President of the United States; and his old-time victor would be beaten back to the place from whence he came. "Bah!" the thin lips parted with an ironical smile, and the word of contempt came very near falling out. He congratulated himself on having checked it in time, for turning aside he saw a pair of clear but rather penetrating eyes looking directly at him, and a gentle voice asked: "What is it that pleases you so dreadfully, Mr. Bombs?" It was the voice of Adelaide Schwarmer. "O! Ah! Beg pardon, Miss Adelaide," said Mr. Bombs, in the flurried way which was usual with him when she asked him a sudden question, although she was only a chit of a girl, barely fifteen years of age. "For the smile or the style of it, Mr. Bombs?" "For both if need be; but where did you come from so suddenly? I didn't see you at the train." "No, I wasn't there, I stopped to shake paws with--guess who?" "The baker or candlestick-maker or some stick-at-home fellow. Most of the folks seem to have gone away."