Johnny was astonished, so much so that for an instant his eyes strayed away to the deep shadows beyond. When his gaze returned the dark figure of the little yellow man was gone. He had vanished into the night.
“How could he know that?” the boy asked himself in great perplexity. “I have only known it three days. It has been a pledged secret.” Here indeed was a mystery.
Johnny Thompson was, at that moment, living in the little city of Hillcrest. Having wandered the world over, sleeping beneath the tropical moon and the Midnight Sun, and meeting with all manner of weird adventures, he had returned to the place that had fascinated him most as a very small boy—his grandfather’s home. At the edge of this sleepy little city, a hundred and fifty miles from any truly great city, Johnny had found the rambling old home still standing, and in it, a little grayer and slower, but still his kindly old self, was his grandfather.
“You’ve come for a long stay this time, Johnny,” he said with a warming smile. “That’s fine!”
“Yes,” Johnny had replied, “I’m tired of big cities, of adventures and mysteries. I—well, I guess I’d just like to sit in the sun awhile and—well, perhaps play around a little.”
“There’s a fine ball team,” the old man had said enthusiastically. “Lots of interest in it this summer.”
“Baseball—” Johnny said the word slowly. “I’m rather poor at that. Might be ways I could help though.”
And there had been ways. When their best pitcher’s arm went bad and their hopes of winning the Summer League pennant promised to go aglimmering, he had marched bravely into the office of Colonel Chamberlain, the town’s most resourceful business man, and said, “Colonel, it’s up to you to help us out.”
To Johnny’s vast surprise the Colonel replied, “Sure I will, Johnny.” At the same time the Colonel had smiled a mysterious smile. “Truth is,” he said, “I’ve been sort of holding out on you boys. I’ve got a man right here in the laboratories who can throw circles all around any pitcher in the League.”
“Here in the lab—”