“Well, be very careful how you feel it,” he said gently. “Do nothing rough with it. Treat it as a mother treats a sickly child—gently and tenderly. Because it happens to be gun-cotton. Admittedly a safe explosive—but one never knows.” For a moment I was absolutely speechless. “Gun-cotton,” I stammered at length. “Good God! man—are you joking?” “Far from it,” he said. “But I can assure you that there’s no chance of it going off—yet.” He smiled genially. “The fact of the matter is, bank clerk, that you have butted yo…
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