s
some high explosive, usually of the dynamite type. Above it is a small
jar of sulphuric acid. Teeth, working on levers, surround this jar. The
levers project outside the mine. When a ship strikes the mine, one
or more of the levers are pressed in. The teeth crush the jar. The
sulphuric acid drops upon the main charge and explodes it. Do you follow
me."

"I'll follow you as far as the front door," said the politician
balefully. He rose.

"If the charge were in a chair, in the cushion of an easy chair, we'll
say, on the third floor of a house in Brooklyn--"

The Honorable William Linder sat down again. He sat heavily.

"--the problem would be somewhat different. Of course, it would be easy
to arrange that the first person to sit down in the chair would, by his
own weight, blow himself up. But the first person might not be the right
person, you know. Do you still follow me?"

The Honorable William Linder made a remark like a fish.

"Now, we have, if you will forgive my professorial method," continued
Average Jones, "a chair sent to a gentleman of prominence from an
anonymous source. In this chair is a charge of high explosive and above
it a glass bulb containing sulphuric acid. The bulb, we will assume, is
so safe-guarded as to resist any ordinary shock of moving. But when this
gentleman, sitting at ease in his chair, is noticed by a trombonist,
placed for that purpose In the street, below--"

"The Dutch horn-player!" cried the politician. "Then it was him; and
I'll--"

"Only an innocent tool," interrupted Average Jones, in his turn. "He
had no comprehension of what he was doing. He didn't understand that the
vibration from his trombone on one particular note by the slide up the
scale--as in the chorus of Egypt--would shiver that glass and set off
the charge. All that he knew was to play the B-flat trombone and take
his pay."

"His pay?" The question leaped to the politician's lips. "Who paid him?"

"A man--named--er--Arbuthnot," drawled Average Jones.

Linder's eyes did not drop, but a film seemed to be drawn over them.

"You once knew--er--a Mrs. Arbuthnot?"

The thick shoulders quivered a little.

"Her husband--her widower--is in Brooklyn. Shall I push the argument
any further to convince you that you'd better drop out of the mayoralty
race?"

Linder recovered himself a little. "What kind of a game are you ringing
in on me?" he demanded.

"Don't you think," suggested Average Jones sweetly, "that c