by return of post."

I then explained that one of the letters was an invitation to me and my
mother and sister, with any friends who might chance to be visiting us,
to go to Portsmouth to witness a variety of interesting experiments with
torpedoes and such warlike things; while the other letter was an offer
by a friend, of a schooner-built yacht for a moderate sum.

"Now, Nicholas," said I, apologetically, "I'm sorry to give you such an
explosive reception, but it cannot be helped. If you don't care about
torpedoes, you may remain here with my mother and Bella; but if you
would like to go, I shall be happy to introduce you to one or two of my
naval friends. For myself, I must go, because--"

"We will all go, Jeff," interrupted Bella; "nothing could be more
appropriate as a sequel to this morning's experiments. A day among the
torpedoes will be most interesting, won't it?"

She looked up at Nicholas, on whose arm she leaned. He looked down with
that peculiar smile of his which seemed to lie more in his eyes than on
his lips, and muttered something about a day anywhere being, etcetera,
etcetera.

My mother remarked that she did not understand exactly what a torpedo
was, and looked at me for an explanation. I confess that her remark
surprised me, for during the course of my investigations and inventions,
I had frequently mentioned the subject of torpedoes to her, and once or
twice had given her a particular description of the destructive machine.
However, as she had evidently forgotten all about it, and as I cannot
resist the temptation to elucidate complex subjects when opportunity
offers, I began:--

"It is a machine, mother, which--"

"Which bursts," interrupted Bella, with a little laugh.

"But that is no explanation, dear," returned my mother; "at least not a
distinctive one, for guns burst sometimes, and soap-bubbles burst, and
eggs burst occasionally."

"Bella," said Nicholas, who spoke English perfectly, though with a
slightly foreign accent, "never interrupt a philosopher. Allow Jeff to
proceed with his definition."

"Well, a torpedo," said I, "is an infernal machine--"

"Jeff," said my mother, seriously, "don't--"

"Mother, I use the word advisedly and dispassionately. It is a term
frequently given to such engines, because of their horrible nature,
which suggests the idea that they were originated in the region of
Satanic influence. A torpedo, then, is a pretty large case, or box, or
cask,