“We’re all working with one end in view,” said Mr. Strong, the editor, taking a moment from his many busy hours to chat with him. “We’re keeping the public informed regarding important matters. We’re helping to fight crime and trying to encourage people to live decent and respectable lives.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Jimmie, too much awed by the greatness of the man to say more.
Important things did happen despite the boy’s busy days. He and John had their dinner with Harm Stark, the silver-fox king. Such a dinner it was! A private dining room with paneled walls such as Jimmie had never seen before. Real, solid silver service there was too. And such food! Chicken legs encased in fancy paper at the ends, mashed potatoes, yellow with butter, and side dishes the boy could not so much as name.
Harm Stark, in his own broad, open-hearted way, gave John a real story. He told of his early struggle and final success, told how acres of fox farms had widened and how they were fenced and guarded. He told of feeding, training and selecting the foxes.
“And after that,” he sighed, “comes the harvest. They’re all here and sold, a half million dollars worth. Here right in the city. Some day I’ll give you a ring on the phone and take you over to see them. Of course, they’re not mine any more, but Solomon Zimmerman won’t mind showing them. He’s as proud of them as I am.”
Jimmie hoped the ring on the phone might come very soon. Had he but known it, that particular phone call, costing only one buffalo nickel, was to be of the utmost importance to him. It is often so in life, a simple lifting of the receiver, a murmur, “Give me Randolph 1223,” may mean success or failure, victory or defeat, even life or death to someone. You may be sure that when that call did come Jimmie was ready to listen.
One other thing occurred which, strange to say, was in the end to be closely connected with the silver fox king’s phone call. It happened during the noon lunch hour when Tom Howe came over to make his report.
“Your scratch clue was a real one,” Tom said with a friendly smile.
“My scratch clue?” Jimmie stared at him in surprise. Then, of a sudden, he remembered. When he had accompanied Tom to the scene of that safe-robbery, he had taken pictures other than those required by his paper. On the section of the steel door, cut away with the use of an oxyacetylene torch, he had discovered some scratches. Having recently read a book on strange clues, he had thought it worth while to photograph these scratches. When the picture had been enlarged they stood out very plainly. It was this that had led him to print the picture of Tom Howe looking at that broken bit of steel and, supposedly, discovering fresh clues. As he recalled all this he smiled as he said:
“I’m glad they were the real thing. What did you do about it?”