"Many Christians," comments the Revd, "believe Gaming to be a sin. Among Scholars, serious questions arise as to Predestination and the Will of God,— Who notes each detail of each life in a sort of divine Ledger, allotting Fortune bad and good, to each individually, even as He raiseth the storm at sea, lendeth the Weather-gage to the dark Dromonds of Piracy, provoketh the Mohawk against the Trader's Post. For He is Lord of All Danger. Yet others safe at home wager upon His Will, as express'd thro' the doings of these Enterprisers, exactly as upon a fall of Cards, or a Roll of Dice."
"Why, Wicks. You see us as no more than common 'Spielers'? Para?sites upon the Fortunes of those willing to Risk all? Pray you, setting aside whose Hearth you are ever welcome at, tell me all."
"What alarms me most, Wade," proceeds Revd Cherrycoke, "is the possibility of acquiring such vast sums so quickly. If a sailor may kill a Bully over a sixpence, then what disproportionate mischief, including Global War, may not attend the safekeeping of Fortunes of millions of pounds Sterling?"
"You're asking the wrong Merchant. I'm lucky if I clear'd a Thousand, this Year."
"Happen they all reach a point where they can't trust their Luck any more...? So they cheat.”
"Bold as you please." Later, in their Rooms, too late the Gamer's Remorse, Mason working himself up, "He mark'd the cards. The Dice were of cunningly lacquer'd Iron, the playing-surface magnetickally fid-dl'd,— Damme, he owes us twenty pounds,— more! what are we sup-pos'd to do, live upon Roots? 'twas the Royal Society's, belay that, the King's own money,— hey? right out of G. Rex's Purse it came, and don't it make a true Englishman boil!" Tis an Insult to Mason that cannot pass unanswer'd,— this runny-nos'd, titl'd Savage, tossing their Expedi?tionary Funds as airy Gratuities to the Slaves who stood all night with Coals kept ever a-glow, and with Bellows clear'd the immediate Air of smoke, that a player might see what Cards he held.
Insupportable. "We must take something worth twenty pounds, then...? Let the Rascal pursue huz...?" Dixon adjusts the Angle of his Hat. "Let's have a look. Here upon the wall, this Etching,— what's it suppos'd to be? Turkish Scene or something— Wait,— Mason, it's people fucking...? Eeh! And look at thah'...?...Well,— we can't sell that in Philadelphia. What's this? Chamber-pot? Perhaps not. How about the Bed?"
"Might as well be taking that Tub over there," indicating a giant Bathing-tub with Feet, Bear Feet in fact, cast at the Lepton Foundry from local Iron.
"Why aye, that's it! The Tub!"
"Dixon, it's half a Ton if it's a Dram, we're not going to move it...? Even if we could, where would we move it to? And once there,—
Dixon, a-mumble, is over examining the Tub. "Laws of Lever?age... William Emerson taught things no one else in England knows. Secret techniques of mechanickal Art, rescued from the Library at Alexandria, circa 390 A.D., before rampaging Christians could quite destroy it all, jealously guarded thereafter, solemnly handed down the Centuries from Master to Pupil."
Mason's squint appears. "You shouldn't be showing these 'Secrets' to me, then, should you? No more than that Watch."
"Oh, thou would have to swear the somewhat ominous 'Oath of Silence,' of course, but we can do thah' later,— here, look thee." Dixon seems scarcely to touch the pond'rous Fixture,— yet suddenly, as if by Levitation, one end has rotated upward, and the great Tub now stands precariously balanced upon a sort of lip or Flange at its other end.
"That's amazing!" cries Mason.
"Simple matters of balance,— Centers of Gravity true and virtual,— Moments of Inertia,— "
"Have 'em all the time,—
"— estimated Mass,—
- the Priest having enjoy'd a merry night before?" tho' yet a-squint. "What's this,— shan't I hear 'Magnetism,' as well? some deliberate omission?"
Dixon doesn't answer immediately, nor, as it will prove, at all, focus'd as he has become upon gently but fluently tweaking the giant iron Con?cavity across the room and toward the door,— through which it is not immediately clear how the Tub is going to, actually, fit. So sure is his touch that the floorboards barely creak. "Ah very nice, very nice indeed...? now I'll just have a look out at the stairs. And if thoo don't mind,—
"Um,— ?" inquires Mason.
"This,— " indicating the looming Mass above them, "needs to be held at exactly the Angle it's at,— not just the Angle off the floor, do tha see, but also this exact Angle of Rotation about the long Axis? Try not to think of this as two separate Angles, but as One? Thou're following this?"
"I,— you want me to,— wait,— no, why not just lean it against the Wall, here?"
"Thah' Wall? eeh! eeh! it'll go through than' Wall! No,— all I ask, is thah' thoo hold the Tub up, but for a minute, whilst I go reconnoitre."
"That's one minute,— you promise."
"Two minutes. At most. It's perfectly stable, so long as tha don't shift
it about too much  Good fellow, just slip in here, yes and thy hands
go...there,— a unique resting-place for everything, Friend,— behold the Tub, perfectly quiescent, 's it not...? in maximum self-alignment, and quietly gathering Power. 'Twill see us free of this place,— eeh. Ideal. Now,— don't move. I'll be right back."
He vanishes, leaving Mason 'neath the Tub. Soon Mason detects the smell of Pipe-Tobacco,— Dixon's blend, indisputably. He's out there having a leisurely Smoke whilst Mason, squinting upward nervously, struggles to keep the Tub upon its Axes. After a while, as if to himself,
 lightly vocalizing, "It's gone two minutes and thirty-one seconds." The words gong loudly back and forth, painfully seeming to enter one ear, pass through his head, and depart out the other ear. In the after-hum he fancies he can hear Dixon's voice, and then another,— Lady Lepton's if he is not mistaken, tho' Words soon lapse, whilst Sounds continue. An overturn'd chair. Sighs. Fabric tearing. A merry Squeal. All at once, in chiming two-part Harmony and unnaturally accelerating Tempo, unmis?takably, "0 Ruddier than the Cherry." Tis the infamous Musickal Bodice, devis'd by an instrument-maker of London, wherein Quills sewn into its fastening, when this is pull'd apart, will set a-vibrating, one after another, a row of bell-metal Reeds, each tun'd to a specifick Note,— the more force applied, the louder the notes. ''Ripping Tune!" Mason calls out. He has no idea how to disengage from Dixon's blasted Tub, tho' now would hardly seem the best time to do so, unless,— now that he's listening,— there no longer seems to be.. .hmm, quite as much sound from out there...
If, in fact, any. "Well,— fucking insane, wouldn't you agree!"
In the unpromising silence that slowly, gongingly, falls, Mason becomes aware of a measur'd Tapping upon the outside of the Tub, directly over the back of his Head. It progresses 'round the rim of the Tub until into sight comes the flush'd Phiz of an individual in an out?dated Wig of foreign Manufacture, waving about a fantastickal Compass of Brass and Mahogany, rigg'd out with Micrometer Screws, dial-faces, enigmatickally wreath'd coils of Copper Wire. "Good day to you," he greets Mason. "Are you the one responsible for this quite astonishing Magnet?"
"What, this? 'tis a Tub, Sir." Hoping the Echo may give him an Edge.
' 'Tis damn' nearly Earth's third Pole," mutters the dishevel'd Philosopher. "Observe." He steps across the room, holds up a Building-Nail, and lets it go. It flies through the Air, in a curious, as it seems directed, Arc, hits the Tub with a solid bong, flattening its Point by an eighth of an inch, and fails to drop to the floor,— "Not unlike Hungarian Vampirism," snatching it loose and proceeding to dangle one by one a gigantick Loop of other Nails from it, "the Ability may be transfus'd from one Mass of Iron to another,— Excuse me. I am Professor Voam, Philo?sophical Operator, just at present scampering from the King's Authori-
 ties, for electrocuting at Philadelphia one of these American Macaronis who cannot heed even the simplest Caution, such as, 'Don't touch the Torpedo.' Ease of Compliance written all over it, not so? yet such is the Juvenility abounding upon these Shores, that the damn'd Fop must go feel for himself. Poh. Notwithstanding 'twas he who fell'd himself, a number of arm'd Citizens thought it better I depart.... Here,— shall you be much longer under there? Perhaps we could find some Coffee."
"I'm not sure how he got me under here," Mason a bit plaintive, "and even less sure about how to get out. Your mention of Coffee, withal, intensifies my Unhappiness."
"Someone put you beneath this Ferric Prodigy?"
"My Co-adjutor, Mr. Dixon."
"Of course! The Astronomers! Dixon and Mason!"
"Actually," Mason says, "That's— "
"Say, I hope you Boys ain't had a falling-out."
"He was demonstrating a Principle of Staticks, and became dis?tracted. Apparently this Tub is resting upon some Axis invisible to all but Dixon."
The Professor has a Look-See, waving his Apparatus in mystickal tho' regular Curves at the Tub. "Fascinating. The Axis it's on is Mag-netick. Good thing he didn't try to balance this mechanickally. Whoo! you'd be flatter'n a Griddle-Cake." He is carefully adjusting his Grip upon the Rim.
"Excuse me,— to what End? Gazing at it, as it fries? saying, Oh, you're so Circular...your Airr-Bubbles, they're so intrriguing,—
"Than, than,— good, that's got it. Just help me lower it,— Q.E.D. and Amen. Say, pleasant Tub. This could be just the Article to keep Felipe in, now that I look at it."
"That's your...?"
"Torpedo. Lodging him in the Arabian-Gardens Pool for the moment, but 'twill soon be time to move on, and then...?"
Mason stretches and twists his Neck and Head about. "Grateful, Sir. Now perhaps may I direct you to Safety,— any number of Refugees hav?ing become attach'd to our Party,— all traveling under the joint guaran?tee of the Proprietors, and their Provincial Governments as well. To my knowledge, tho' there be Tailors, Oracles, Pastrymen, Musicians, Gaming-
 Pitches, Opera-Girls, Exhibitors of Panoramic Models, bless us all, there is not yet an Electric Eel."
"You are kind,— yet the publick rooms of Philadelphia offering Insult a-plenty,— I am not sure the Practice would subside as we mov'd West."
"Yet, supposing Progress Westward were a Journey, returning unto Innocence,— approaching, as a Limit, the innocence of the Animals with whom those Eolk must inter-act upon a daily basis,— why, Sir, your Torpedo may hold for them greater appeal than you may guess."
"Rural Electrification," the Professor sighs, "Seed-Bed of the unfore?seen. Where is our choice? Come, and you shall meet Felfpe."
After they are join'd by Dixon, emerging coprophagously a-grin from some false Panel in a Wall, exeunt the Premises, bringing along the Tub. One corridor's branching away from the Arabian Gardens, the Slave who spoke to Dixon earlier stands now abruptly in Mason's Path, obliging him to pause, quite close, Face to Face with her.
"Leaving me again, Charles?"
"It isn't you."
"I was abducted by Malays. Love-Jobbers. Walk thro' the Market with little Fly-Whisks, inspecting the Girls and Boys, striking this one, that one,— sooner or later, each is come for. When I felt the tiny Lashes, 'twas to be destin'd for Jesuit Masters, in payment of a Debt forever unexplain'd to me,— only then to be remanded, soon as we gain'd Que?bec, to the Sisterhood of the Widows of Christ. Whence, after my Novi?tiate, kind Captain D. and I came to our Rapprochement."
"Your French has improv'd," whispers Mason. "I know who you are, and well before next Midnight, too. Ah, and as for 'kind,' why the man is at least a Flagellant, you Wanton."
She smiles not at all enigmatickally, turns and steps away, shaking those Globes,— too bad, Flagellants in the Region, she's here only on short-term Lease, in a Fortnight she'll be shaking them someplace else, and a glamorous International Life it's proving to be for her too, so far at least. Who says Slavery's so terrible, hey?
"Good-bye, Charles," beginning to blur, receding 'round the long curve of the Wall. Mason, Dixon and the Professor go poking in and out of one secret Panel after the next, but she is no-where to be found— Instead, the Lads now encounter a Dutch Rifle with a Five-pointed Star
 upon its Cheek-Piece, inverted, in Silver highly polish'd, shining thro' the Grain upon the Wrist and Comb that billows there in stormy Intri?cacy, set casually above some subsidiary Hearth in a lightly-frequented Room.—  A Polaris of Evil..
"As it happen'd," relates Mr. LeSpark, "I was reclining right there, upon a Couch, seeking a moment's Ease from the remorseless Frolick,—
"Alone, of course," his Wife twinkling dangerously.
"As Night after dismal night, my green Daffodil, thro' the bleakness of that pre-marital Vacuum, Claims of the Trade preempting all,— not least the Society of your estimable Sex." In which pitiable state, he dozes off and awakens into the Surveyor's Bickering as to the Rifle's Provenance,— Mason insisting 'tis a Cape Rifle, Dixon an American one.
' Tis no Elephant Gun,— haven't we seen enough of these here by now, Dear knoaws? Barrel's shorter, Stock's another Wood altogether."
"Your Faith being famous, of course, for its close Appreciation of Weaponry."
"Ev'ry Farmer here has a Rifle by him, 'tis a primary Tool, much as an Ax or a Plow... ? tha can't have feail'd to noatice... ?
"Surrounded upon all sides, Night and Day, by the American Mob, ev'ry blessed one of them packing Firrearrms,— why, why yes, I may've made some note of that,—
Wade LeSpark slowly arises, to peer at them over the back of the Couch,— "Good evening, Gentlemen. I was just lying here, having a Gaze at this m'self. Handsome Unit's it not? You can usually tell where one was made, from its Patch-Box," reaching for the Rifle, turning the right side of the Butt toward the Lanthorn, " - the Finials being each peculiar to its Gunsmith, a kind of personal signature...look ye, here it is again, your inverted Star, work'd into the Piercings, as a Cryptogram...withal, this Brass is unusual,— pale, as you'd say,— high Zinc content, despite the British embargo, and sand-cast rather than cut from sheet—
"Lord Lepton hath an Eye,— Damme." He cannot release his Grasp upon the thing. The octagonal Barrel is Fire-blu'd rather than Acid-brown'd, the Lock left bright, despite its Length pois'd nicely when slung
 from its Trigger-Guard, all brought narrow, focus'd, the Twist upon the Rifling inside a bit faster than one in forty-eight, suggesting in its tighter Vortex a smaller charge, a shorter range.. .a Fores............