settled with their backs to
the door. "That must be the thing that governs us--that, and the
sacrifice of as few lives as possible. Not _their_ lives, of course. I
don't care a curse for the Fernalds; the more of them that go sky-high
the better, in my estimation. It's the men I mean, our own people. Some
of them will have to die, I know that. It's unavoidable, since the
factories are never empty. Even when no night shifts are working, there
are always watchmen and engineers on the job. But fortunately just now,
owing to the dull season, there are no night gangs on duty. If we
decide on the mills it can be done at night; if on the Fernalds
themselves, why we can set the bombs when we are sure that they are in
their houses."

Ted bit his lips to suppress the sudden exclamation of horror that rose
to them. He must not cry out, he told himself. Terrible as were the
words he heard, unbelievable as they seemed, if he were to be of any
help at all he must know the entire plot. Therefore he listened dumbly,
struggling to still the beating of his heart.

For a moment there was no response from Cronin.

"Come, Jim, don't sit there like a graven image!" the leader of the
proposed expedition exclaimed impatiently. "Haven't you a tongue in
your head? What's your idea? Out with it. I'm not going to shoulder all
the job."

The man called Cronin cleared his throat.

"As I see it, we gain nothing by blowing up the Fernald houses,"
answered he deliberately. "So long as the mills remain, their income is
sure. After they're gone, the young one will just rebuild and go on
wringing money out of the people as his father and grandfather are
doing."

"But we mean to get him, too."

A murmured protest came from Cronin.

"I'm not for injuring that poor, unlucky lad," asserted he. "He's
nothing but a cripple who can't help himself. It would be like killing
a baby."

"Nonsense! What a sentimental milksop you are, Jim!" Alf cut in. "You
can't go letting your feelings run away with you like that, old man.
I'm sorry for the young chap, too. He's the most decent one of the lot.
But that isn't the point. He's a Fernald and because he is----"

"But he isn't to blame for that, is he?"

"You make me tired, Cronin, with all this cry-baby stuff!" Alf
ejaculated. "You've simply got to cut it out--shut your ears to it--if
we are ever to accomplish anything. You can't let your sympathies run
away with you like this."

"I ain't letting my symp