Free A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah! by Harry Harrison Page A

New York Harbor that the captain brought Washington the fi-nal report.
    “The other man is the real mys-tery, though it appears he was not French. A professional at this sort of thing, no papers in his luggage, no makers’ marks on his clothes, an ab-solute blank. But he was British, ev-eryone who spoke to him is sure of that, and had great influence or he would not be aboard this flight. All the details have been sent to Scot-land Yard and the New York Police are standing by now at the dock. It is indeed a mystery. You have no idea who your enemies might be?”
    Washington sealed his last bag and dropped wearily into the chair.
    “I give you my word, Captain, that until last night I had no idea I had any enemies, certainly none who could work in liaison with the French secret service and hire under-ground operatives.” He smiled wryly. “But I know it now. I certainly know it now.”
    VI. IN THE LION’S DEN
    A truck had gone out of control on Third Avenue and, after caroming from one of the elevated railway pil-lars, mounting the curb and breaking off a water hydrant, it had turned on its side and spilled its cargo out into the street. This consisted of many bundles of varicolored cloth which had split and spread a gay bunting in all directions. The workings of chance had determined that the site of the accident could not have been better chosen for the machinations of mischief, or more ill chosen for the preserving of law and order, for the event had occurred directly in front of an Iroquois bar and grill.
    The occupants of the bar now poured into the street to see the fun, whooping happily through the streaming water and tearing at the bundles to see what they contained. Most of the copper-skinned men were bare above the waist, it being a warm summer day, clad only in leg-gings and moccasins below with per-haps a headband and feather above. They pulled out great streamers of the cloth and wrapped it about themselves and laughed uproari-ously while the dazed truck driver hung out of the window of his cab above and shook his fist at them.
    The fun would have ended with this and there would have been no great mischief done if this estab-lishment, The Laughing Water, had not been located just two doorways away from Clancy’s, a drinking pal-ace of the same order that drew its custom solely from men of Hiber-nean ancestry.
    This juxtaposition had caused much anguish to the po-lice and the peace of the area in the past and was sure to do so in the fu-ture, and in fact promised to accom-plish the same results now in the present.
    The Irishmen, hearing the ex-citement, also came out into the street and stood making comments and pointing and perhaps envying the natural exuberance of the In-dians‘. The results were predictable and within the minute someone had been tripped, a loud name had been called, blows exchanged and a gen-eral melee resulted. The Iroquois, forced by law to check tomahawks and scalping knives at the city limits, or leave them at home if they were residents, found a ready substitute in the table knives from the grill. The Irish, equally restricted in the public display of shillelaghs, and black-thorn sticks above a certain weight, found bottles and chair legs a work-able substitute and joined the fray. War whoops mixed with the names of saints and the Holy Family as they clashed.
    There were no deaths or serious maimings, since the object of the ex-ercise was pleasure, but there were certainly broken heads and bones and at least one scalp taken, the to-ken scalp of a bit of skin and hair. The roar of a passing el train drowned the happy cries and when it had rumbled into oblivion police si-rens took its place. Spectators stood at a respectable distance and enjoyed the scene while barrow merchants, quick to seize the opportunity, plied the edge of the crowd selling refresh-ments.
    It was all quite enjoyable.
    Ian Macintosh found it highly ob-jectionable, not the sort of thing at all that one would ever