“Apparently learning to ride,” said Prokop doubtfully.
“Frightfully inept, eh?” said Mr. Carson and opened the window. “Bob.”
The youth on the bicycle stopped instantly: “Yessr.”
“Go to the town for our car!” said Mr. Carson in English.
“Yessr.” And the young cyclist whisked off towards the town.
Mr. Carson turned away from the window. “An Irishman. Very smart lad. What was I going to say? Aha! About six Prokops appeared—meetings in different places, especially at night—amusing, eh? Read this.”
“Come to my laboratory at ten o’clock to-night, Eng. Prokop,” read Prokop as if in a dream. “But this is . . . practically . . . my handwriting!”
“You see,” grinned Carson. “My friend, things are warm. Sell the stuff, and be left in peace!”
Prokop shook his head.
Mr. Carson gave him a heavy, fixed look. “You can ask . . . let us say . . . twenty million. Sell us Krakatit.”
“No.”
“You will get everything back. Twenty million. Sell it, man!”
“No,” said Prokop heavily. “I don’t want anything to do . . . with your wars.”
“What’s your position here? A chemist of genius . . . and lives in a wooden hut! That’s the way your countrymen appreciate you! I know.
