exploded prematurely. Of course they saw nothing of the sort. In the
fevered imagination of fear they thought they saw, that was all.

As Ernest said at the trial: "Does it stand to reason, if I were going
to throw a bomb, that I should elect to throw a feeble little squib like
the one that was thrown? There wasn't enough powder in it. It made a lot
of smoke, but hurt no one except me. It exploded right at my feet, and
yet it did not kill me. Believe me, when I get to throwing bombs, I'll
do damage. There'll be more than smoke in my petards."

In return it was argued by the prosecution that the weakness of the
bomb was a blunder on the part of the socialists, just as its premature
explosion, caused by Ernest's losing his nerve and dropping it, was a
blunder. And to clinch the argument, there were the several Congressmen
who testified to having seen Ernest fumble and drop the bomb.

As for ourselves, not one of us knew how the bomb was thrown. Ernest
told me that the fraction of an instant before it exploded he both heard
and saw it strike at his feet. He testified to this at the trial, but
no one believed him. Besides, the whole thing, in popular slang, was
"cooked up." The Iron Heel had made up its mind to destroy us, and there
was no withstanding it.

There is a saying that truth will out. I have come to doubt that saying.
Nineteen years have elapsed, and despite our untiring efforts, we have
failed to find the man who really did throw the bomb. Undoubtedly he was
some emissary of the Iron Heel, but he has escaped detection. We have
never got the slightest clew to his identity. And now, at this late
date, nothing remains but for the affair to take its place among the
mysteries of history.*