A mile or so from the plant, or just outside the main gate, quite a settlement had grown up, like a mushroom, almost overnight—­the product of a flood of new money.  Originally, there had been only one house for some distance about—­that of the Sneddens.  But now there were scores of houses, mostly those of officials and managers, some of them really pretentious affairs.  MacLeod himself lived in one of them, and we could see him ahead of us, being driven home.

The workmen lived farther along the line, in a sort of company town, which at present greatly resembled a Western mining-camp, though ultimately it was to be a bungalow town.

Just at present, however, it was the Snedden house that interested us most, for we felt the need of getting ourselves established in this strange community.  It was an old-fashioned farm-house and had been purchased very cheaply by Snedden several years before.  He had altered it and brought it up to date, and the combination of old and new proved to be typical of the owner as well as of the house.

Kennedy carried off well the critical situation of our introduction, and we found ourselves welcomed rather than scrutinized as intruders.

Garfield Snedden was much older than his second wife, Ida.  In fact, she did not seem to be much older than Snedden’s daughter Gertrude, whom MacLeod had already mentioned—­a dashing young lady, never intended by nature to vegetate in the rural seclusion that her father had sought before the advent of the powder-works.  Mrs. Snedden was one of those capable women who can manage a man without his knowing it.  Indeed, one felt that Snedden, who was somewhat of both student and dreamer, needed a manager.

“I’m glad your train was on time,” bustled Mrs. Snedden.  “Luncheon will be ready in a few moments now.”

We had barely time to look about before Gertrude led us into the dining-room and introduced us to the other boarders.

Knowing human nature, Kennedy was careful to be struck with admiration and amazement at everything we had seen in our brief whirl through Nitropolis.  It was not a difficult or entirely assumed feeling, either, when one realized that, only a few short months before, the region had been nothing better than an almost hopeless wilderness of scrub-pines.

We did not have to wait long before the subject uppermost in our minds was brought up—­the explosions.

Among the boarders there were at least two who, from the start, promised to be interesting as well as important.  One was a tall, slender chap named Garretson, whose connection with the company, I gathered from the conversation, took him often on important matters to New York.  The other was an older man, Jackson, who seemed to be connected with the management of the works, a reticent fellow, more given to listening to others than to talking himself.

“Nothing has happened so far to-day, anyhow,” remarked Garretson, tapping the back of his chair with his knuckle, as a token of respect for that evil spirit who seems to be exorcised by knocking wood.