“Yes, I——”
“Son,” his father broke in, “I may be wrong, but I have a feeling that you should go on. You may in time make a worth-while contribution to the safety of this city’s people with your candid camera.”
“Look out there!” He pointed to row after row of flat buildings speeding past them. “People live out there. Thousands and thousands of simple, kindly people. Hardly one of them feels perfectly at ease and safe. Why? Because criminals are free to roam the city streets.
“As I look at it,” his tone was serious, “it is the duty of each one of us to do what he can to make those people safe.
“I don’t want you to get yourself injured or killed. No father wants that. But I also don’t want you to grow up soft—to be afraid. I want you to be brave, strong. You can never be that until you have faced real dangers. Don’t be fool-hardy or reckless, but when an opportunity for a real service presents itself don’t be afraid to step in.”
“Thanks. Oh, thanks,” Jimmie stammered. What he was thinking was, “I’ve got a real dad.”
At that same hour John Nightingale and Mary Dare, the red-headed lady reporter, sat at a table in a basement eatshop drinking coffee and discussing Jimmie.
“What sort of a boy is this Jimmie Drury?” Mary asked.
“Oh, just another boy,” John drawled.
“John!” Mary’s voice rose, “you know that’s not true. No boy is just another boy. What sort of boy is he?”