“Luke,” said his assistant, “I think we had better dismiss the hands! I have a note here--some one gave it to Pap Tolliver--” She smoothed out the crumpled, soiled half sheet of cheap notepaper and read the message aloud---- “_You keep away from mill at nights._” “Well, what of it?” Manders demanded truculently. “Some sore-headed Slavonian--” He dismissed it with a gesture. “But, Luke, you know you posted a notice that we wouldn’t work night shifts this week, and----” “What of it?” The mountaineer was trying hard to be civil, Mrs. Parker considered, but without marked success. “Luke, I’m frightened! You know there have been threats. And this week, when--as they supposed--the hands would not be here at night--would be the time they would choose for--for wrecking the mill! Luke, _please_ send them all home!” He shook his head. “Can’t do it, Glen! Up to our eyes in a rush order, you know that as well as I do! We can’t----” “I think we’ll dismiss the hands immediately, Manders,” said Peter Parker quietly. “You are quite right, Peter,” said the Federation President, regarding her offspring with surprised respect. The superintendent started to speak and caught himself. He might have been, in childish fashion, counting ten before he spoke. “Mr. Parker, you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t take orders from you in this case. I know our needs a good deal better than you do, and I know how much attention to pay to a bluff like this--” he took the note from Glen’s hand, tore it contemptuously, and dropped it into the wastebasket. Janice Jennings, her thin bare arms folded, leaning against a small cupboard set cornerwise, noted with amusement the look of rapturous admiration and approval which Nancy Carey bent upon Manders, and the grieved shock in Glen Darrow’s eyes. The girl from Pittsburg was having an exceptionally good time. “_Peter!_” His mother’s tone was admonitory. “Sit tight, Eugenia,” said her son, and then, addressing himself to the superintendent’s assistant, “Will you be good enough to ring the bell or press the button or blow the whistle--whatever the signal is for ‘All ashore?’” “Yes!” Glen Darrow started toward the door, but halted sharply. Miss Jennings had emitted a small shriek. Her feet seemed glued to the spot on which they were placed, but she had risen on her toes and was leaning forward, away from the corner cupboard, looking back at it over her shoulder, her bright little eyes as wide as possible. “Say, listen, is there a clock in here?” “There’s the clock,” said Manders, pointing to an ancient timepiece on the wall. “No--in here! In this cupboard! _I tell you I hear it ticking!_” “There are clock-work bombs--” Mrs. Parker cried out. “You’re on, Eugenia,” said her son cordially. “Manders, clear the building instantly, and then open this cupboard! Snap into it!” They could all hear the ticking now, they were so quiet.