“No. Pop bottles would be bad for his eyes. Got forty eyes, that umpire has.” Johnny laughed. “Guess the crowd will go easy on that, though.
“You see,” Johnny went on as the editor showed his interest by hitching up in his chair, “an electric eye is like a radio tube. When a beam of light is sent to it from across a space it stays just so until the light is shut off by some object, say a baseball. Then it sets up a howl. If you connect it with a phonograph attachment, you can make it call out ‘Foul ball!’”
“Interesting if true,” C.K. drawled. “Sure ought to draw a crowd.
“Say Johnny!” The editor leaned forward to speak in a tone little more than a whisper. “Heard anything about Federal agents being around town?”
“Federal agents!” Johnny stared. “No. What for?”
“I’ve heard they’re looking for a Chinaman, a little fellow—name’s Tao Sing, I believe.”
“Tao Sing!” Johnny started. A mental picture of Tao Sing in the small room at the back of the Chinese spice shop flashed into his mind.
“Thought I knew them all,” said C.K. “This must be a new one.”
“Why should Federal agents want a Chinaman? Who’s afraid of a Chinaman?” This last slipped from Johnny’s lips unbidden.
“Who’s afraid of a Chinaman!” C.K. sat up straight quite suddenly. “Plenty of people afraid of a Chinaman, Johnny. Plenty!