“You git ahead now. No noise, no tracks, you savvy?”
Again the Indian answered with a nod of his head.
In ten minutes they were lurking in the shadows beneath the lighted window.
Aaron’s house was a story and a half affair, and the lighted window at least ten feet from the ground. They could hear the murmur of voices, but the closed window kept them from understanding a word of what was being said.
A stone’s throw away the lights of the Palace Hotel burned brightly; Johnny turned a wistful eye toward it. In a way it was his Times Square—his Broadway. He wondered who was facing Scanlon tonight. Something whispered to him that his evenings there were a thing of the past. Gambling with him had been an art, but it was a sorry accomplishment, one that would be of doubtful value to him in the days to come.
Unknown to Johnny, this reasoning was based on the fact that subconsciously he saw himself treading the future at Molly Kent’s side.
A through freight thundered by as the two men waited, undecided as to their next move. Charlie looked blankly at the boy. “How you get up there?” he whispered.
“I’ll tell you,” Johnny answered, an idea breaking in on him. “I stand on your shoulders, Charlie, you know, like this”—the boy stooped and then arose, clasping the legs of an imaginary man. “You understand?”
Again that unemotional nod from the Indian. Getting down upon all fours, he waited for Johnny to climb into position. The boy straightened up, using the side of the house to help him retain his balance.
“Move along,” he whispered. “Stop when I signal.”