Shot With Crimson. George Barr McCutcheon

so you have absolutely nothing to reproach yourself with,” said she. “How fortunate in these days.”

      “I'm sorry, Mrs. Carstairs, if I—”

      “I was born in the United States,” she said, without a trace of annoyance, “but not in Nebraska. You have the advantage of me there, I fear. And of poor Mr. Zimmerlein, too. He was born in Boston,—were you not?”

      “In Marlborough Street,” said Zimmerlein, drily. “My father was Irish, as you can tell by me name, and me poor mither was Irish too. Her name before marriage was Krausshof.” Mr. Cribbs's face was scarlet. To cover his confusion, he wedged his way a little closer to the windows and glared at the dull red light that crept slowly out of the darkness off to the south. The crests of the hills were beginning to take shape against a background shot with crimson.

      “Just the same,” he muttered, “I'd like to see the men who are responsible for that fire over there burning in hell.”

      “I think we can agree on that point, at least, Mr. Cribbs,” said Zimmerlein, with dignity.

      “Who wants to run over there with me in my car?” cried the other, excitedly. “It's only a few miles, and it must be a wonderful sight. I can take six or seven—”

      “Stay where you are, Cribbs,” said Carstairs sharply. “When those shells begin to go off—Why, man alive, there's never been anything on the French front that could hold a candle to it. Don't forget what happened when Black Tom pier was blown up. Pray do not be alarmed, ladies. There isn't the slightest danger here. The shells they are making at the Reynolds plant are comparatively small. We're safely out of range.”

      “What size shells were they making, Carstairs?” inquired one of the men.

      “Three inch, I believe—and smaller. A lot of machine-gun ammunition, too. Cox, the general manager, dined with us the other night. He talked a little too freely, I thought,—didn't you, Frieda?”

      “He boasted, if that is what you mean,” said Mrs. Carstairs.

      “Well,” said a big, red-faced man on the outer edge of the group, “it's time some of these blooming fools learned how to keep their mouths shut. The country's full of spies,—running over with 'em. You never know when you're talking to one.”

      Silence followed his remark. For some time they all stood watching the crimson cloud in the distance, an ever-changing, pulsing shadow that throbbed to the temper of the wind.

      They represented the reluctant element of a large company that had spent the afternoon and early evening at the Black Downs Country Club,—the element that is always reluctant to go home. There had been many intimate little dinner parties during the evening. New York was twenty miles or more away, and there was the Hudson in between. The clock above the huge fireplace had struck eleven a minute or two before the first explosion took place. Chauffeurs in the club-garage were sullenly cursing their employers. All but two or three waiters had gone off to the railway station not far away, and the musicians had made the 10:30 up-train. Peter, the steward, lived on the premises with the chef and several house employes.

      The late-staying guests were clad in sport clothes, rough and warm and smart,—for it was one of the smartest clubs in the Metropolitan district.

      A fierce October gale was whining, cold and bitter and relentless, across the uplands; storm-warnings had gone out from the Weather Bureau; coast-wise vessels were scurrying for harbours and farmers all over the land had made snug their livestock against the uncertain elements.

      If it turned out to be true that the vast Reynolds munitions plant had been blown up, the plotters could not have chosen a more auspicious night for their enterprise. No human force could combat the flames on a night like this; caught on the wings of the wind there would be no stopping them until the ashes of ruin lay wet and sodden where the flight had begun.

      Mrs. Carstairs was the first to turn away from the windows. She shuddered a little. A pretty, nervous young wife sidled up to her, and laid a trembling hand on her arm.

      “Wouldn't it be dreadful if there were a lot of people at work over there when—when it happened?” she cried, in a tense, strained voice. “Just think of it.”

      “Don't think about it, Alice dear. Think of what they are going through in France and Belgium.”

      “But we really aren't fighting them yet,” went on the other, plaintively. “Why should they blow up our factories? Oh, these dreadful, terrible Germans.” Then suddenly, in confusion: “I—I beg your pardon.”

      Mrs. Carstairs smiled pleasantly. “That's all right, my dear. A good many of us suffer for the sins of the fathers. Besides, we are in the war, and have been for six months or more.”

      “We all hate the Kaiser, don't we?” pleaded the younger woman.

      Mrs. Carstairs pressed her arm. “None more so than those of us whose parents left Germany to escape such as he.”

      “I'm glad to hear you say that.”

      “Beg pardon,” said Peter the steward, at Mrs. Carstairs' elbow. “I think this is yours. You dropped it just now.”

      “Thank you, Peter,” said she, taking the crumpled handkerchief he handed her. “I shan't drop it again,” she went on, smiling as she stuffed it securely in the gold mesh bag she was carrying.

      “Peter is such a splendid man, isn't he?” said her young companion, lowering her voice. “So much more willing and agreeable than old Crosby. We're all so glad the change was made.”

      “He is most efficient,” said Mrs. Carstairs.

      The admirable Peter approached Mr. Carstairs and Zimmerlein, who were pouring drinks for themselves at the table.

      “Preparedness is the word of the hour,” Carstairs was saying, as he raised his glass. “It's a long, cold ride home.”

      “Excuse me, gentlemen, shall I call up Central at Bushleigh and see if they can give us any news!” asked Peter.

      “You might try. I don't believe you can get a connection, however. Everything must be knocked galley-west over on that side of the ridge.”

      “I think your wife is signalling you, Carstairs,” said Zimmerlein, looking over the other's shoulder.

      Carstairs tossed off the contents of the glass, and reached out his hand for the check. Zimmerlein already had it in his fingers.

      '“I'll sign it, old chap,” he said. “Give me your pencil, Peter.”

      “None of that, Zimmie. I ordered the—”

      “Run along, old man, your wife—He's coming, Mrs. Carstairs,” called out Zimmerlein.

      As Carstairs turned away, Zimmerlein scratched his name across the check, and handed it back to the steward.

      “Under no circumstances are you to call up Bushleigh,” fell in low, distinct tones from his lips. “Do you understand?”

      Peter's hand shook. His face was livid.

      “Yes, sir,” he muttered. “What shall I say to Mr. Carstairs?”

      “Say that no one answers,” said the other, and walked away.

      The company had recovered its collective and individual power of speech. Every one was talking,—loudly, excitedly, and in some cases violently. Some were excoriating the Germans, others were bitterly criticizing the Government for its over-tenderness, and still others were blaming themselves for not taking the law in their own hands and making short work of the “soap-boxers,” the “pacifists,” and the “obstructionists.” Little Mr. Cribbs was the most violent of them all. He was for organizing the old-time Vigilantes, once so efficacious in the Far West, and equipping them with guns and ropes and plenty of tar and feathers.

      “Nothing