muddy torrent, cut his feet on some insidious stump and returned with an armful of the plants.
The water-lily is a poetical flower, but it exudes an unpleasant liquid from its juicy stalks. Still Prokop ran home with his poetic booty and wondered how he could make an attractive bouquet out of the flowers. He saw that the doctor had left a copy of yesterday’s Politika on the seat in front of the house. Fiercely he tore it into pieces, casually noticing something about a mobilization in the Balkans, a crisis in some Ministry or other, the notice, framed in black, of somebody’s death, bemoaned of course by the whole nation, and wrapped up the wet stems in these items of news. Just as he was preparing, however, to gaze with pride at his work, he got a sudden shock. At the back of the paper he discovered one word, It was KRAKATIT.
For a moment he stared, stupefied, unable to believe his own eyes. Then with feverish haste he unrolled the paper, scattering all the glory of the lilies on to the ground, and finally found the folowing announcement: “KRAKATIT! Will Eng.P. send his address? Carson, Poste Restante.” Nothing more. Prokop’s eyes bulged, and he read again. “Will Eng.P. send his address . . . Carson.” What in heaven’s name! . . . Who is this Carson? And how on earth can he possibly know? . . . For the fiftieth time Prokop re-read the mysterious announcement. . . . “KRAKATIT! Will Eng.P. send his address?” and then “Carson, Poste Restante.”
Prokop sat down as if he had been struck with a club. Why—why did I ever take that cursed paper
