swearing at the
men at the windlass and comparing his papers with the slips of the
customs officer, the one making a blue check on the bill of lading and
the other taking note of each article on his long list. Suddenly a small
box comes to light, which has been waiting patiently since yesterday
under the sheltering tarpaulin. "A box of optical instruments," says the
customs officer, making a blue check. "A box of optical instruments,"
repeats the overseer, making a mark with his moistened pencil-stump:
"Careful!" he adds, as a workman is on the point of tipping the heavy
box over. Then the hook of the crane seizes the loop in the steel rope
and with a stuttering rattling sound the wheels of the windlass set to
work, the steel wire grips the side of the box tightly, the barrel
beside it is pushed aside, and a wooden case enclosing a piece of
cast-iron machinery is scraped angrily over the slippery cobble-stones.
Heave ho, heave ho, chant the men, pushing with all their might. To the
accompaniment of splashing drops of oily water, puffs of steam, groans
of the windlass and the yells and curses of the stevedores, the whole
load, including the box of optical instruments, at last disappears in
the hold of the ship. It is placed securely between rolls of cardboard
next to some nice white boxes filled with shining steel goods. But when
the noise up above has died down, when with the approach of darkness the
rattling of the chains and the groaning of the windlasses has ceased,
when only the slow step of the deck-watch finds an echo--then it can be
heard. Inside the box you can hear a gentle but steady tick, tick, tick.
The clock-work is wound up and set to the exact second. Tick, tick, tick
it goes. When the ship is far out at sea and the passengers are asleep
and the watch calls out: "Lights are burning. All's well!" then the
works will have run down, the spring will stop and loosen a little
hammer. Ten kilograms of dynamite suffice. A quarter of an hour later
there'll be nothing left of the proud steamer but a few boats loaded
down with people and threatening every moment to be engulfed in the
waves.

Tick, tick, tick, it goes down in the hold; the clock is set. Tick,
tick, tick, it goes on unceasingly, till the unknown hour arrives. No
one suspects the true nature of a piece of the cargo which certainly
looked innocent enough. Yet the hour is bound to come sooner or later,
but no one knows just when.

* *