"I don't know; it sounded like a German's voice. At any rate he had the
wrong number. He said, 'Iss dis Mr. Vernberg?'"

"Oh, Wernberg," exclaimed Mr. Cook. "He's the man who moved into that
house down on the corner about two years ago. Karl Wernberg is his full
name and he's one of the worst of the Germans; he used to be an officer
in the German army, I understand."

"What do you mean 'he's one of the worst of the Germans'?" asked Harold.

"Why, the way he talks against the United States and for Germany. He's
made all his money here, too."

"What's his business?"

"Some kind of chemicals, I believe."

"Perhaps he's making bombs," laughed Harold, and the rest of the family
joined in the laugh. That is, all but Bob, who took the suggestion
seriously, and his heart thumped a beat faster at the thought.

In fact, as he went to bed that night his mind was filled with thoughts
of spies, and plotters, and the hundred and one other things connected
with the war that he and his family had discussed that evening. He went
to the closet and took out the .22 caliber rifle that he owned; it was
in good condition and Bob assured himself that he had plenty of
cartridges, though he knew so small a gun would be of but little use in
time of trouble.