"I bet me," said the German, and washed his hands with air.
"Lot o' what?" asked Bubbles.
"Loot--gold, silver, jewels, bullion."
"Your ideas," said the German, "is all idiot. No mans is such a darn
fool as to think he can get away by such a business--no mans, that is,
but is crazy."
"Blizzard is crazy," said Mr. Lichtenstein simply. "It wasn't until we
hit on that hypothesis that we made any progress. Bubbles, did you ever
hear of the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew?"
"Sure," said Bubbles, "they shot him full of arrows."
"That was Saint Sebastian," corrected the Jew. "Now listen, this is
history. On the night of August 24, 1572, two thousand men,
distinguished from other men by white cockades in their hats, on the
order of a crazy man, at the tolling of a bell, drew their swords,
murdered everybody in a great city who opposed their leaders, and made
themselves absolute masters of the place. What two thousand men did in
Paris during the Middle Ages, ten thousand men acting in concert could
do in New York to-day. If a man rose up with the power to command such a
following, with the ability to keep his plans absolutely secret, with
the genius to make plans in which there were no flaws, he could loot
Maiden Lane, the Sub-Treasury, Tiffany's, the Metropolitan Museum--_and
get away with it_."
Mr. Lichtenstein's small eyes glittered. He was visibly excited. And so
was Mr. Blicker.
"He will loot the Metropolitan Museum," said this one, "but what will he
do with the metropolitan police?"
"Well," said Mr. Lichtenstein, "I am only supposing. But suppose some
fine night a building somewhere central was blown up with dynamite.
Suppose the sound was so big that it could be heard in every part of
greater New York. Suppose at the sound every policeman in greater New
York was shot dead in his tracks--"
Bubbles's hair began to bristle. "Say," he cried in his excitement, "the
straw hats--the soft straw hats that Blizzard makes and don't
sell--they're the white cockades!"
Mr. Blicker guffawed. Mr. Lichtenstein rose and paced the room.
"And that proves," he exclaimed, "that nothing is to happen when you and
I are wearing straw hats--but in winter. Bubbles, you're a bright boy!"
"You are both so bright," said Mr. Blicker, "you keep me all the time
laughing."
"Well," said Mr. Lichtenstein, "that may be, but suppose you tell me why
Blizzard makes straw hats and don't sell 'em. Tell me why he's dug such
a great hole under his house with a passage leading to the river, and
ships. Tell me why O'Hagan is drilling men in the West. Tell me why
Blizzard has gone out of the white-slave business. It fetched him in a
pretty penny."
"I think I can answer the last question," said Bubbles.
"Do then."
"I think," said the small boy, "that he's got some good in him
somewhere, and I know he's dead gone on my Miss Ferris. I think he's
ashamed o' some o' the things he's done."
Mr. Lichtenstein considered this at some length. Then he said: "Well,
that's possible. But it's an absolutely new idea to me. Blizzard
_ashamed_? Hum!"