“I—maybe I’ll come back some other time.” As he slid out of the place Johnny barely escaped bumping into two slim young men who had an air of watchful waiting about them.
“Federal agents, like as not,” was the thought that struck him all of a heap. Experience had taught him that the best detectives of today were likely to be young, slender and quick. These were of that sort.
Finding himself still free, he hurried away.
“Perhaps I ought to tell them,” he thought. And then, a moment later, “Tell them what?” What, indeed? What did he know about Tao Sing that Federal agents should know? Little enough, that was certain. “Know he wants to salt down some of Wung Lu’s wisdom,” he chuckled. Then of a sudden it occurred to him that the sort of knowledge he had secured from Wung Lu’s thoughts might not be that which wise men would record in a book of Chinese philosophy.
“Like to read just one of them,” he told himself. He fingered the small metal box in his pocket. “I can’t,” he sighed. “It’s all Chinese.”
Next morning Johnny, Doug, and old Professor George went to the bank and drew out a thousand dollars. “Whew! What a lot of money!” Doug whispered.
They carried it to Big Bill Tyson’s office.
“Here it is, William,” Professor George squeaked in his high-pitched voice. “Here’s your first payment on the baseball grounds.”
“Fine! Fine!” Big Bill’s eyes shone as if he were truly glad. And perhaps he was. Big Bill loved money. “Here’s the contracts you’ll have to sign.” He wheeled about in his swivel chair. “One for you and one for me. Don’t mind signin’ with them, do you Professor? Mere matter of form. Boys are under age, you know.”
“No. I’ll sign the contracts, William.” The aged professor’s smile was a fine thing to see. “I’m always glad to help the boys out. And William, I’m proud to see that you’re willing to do your part.”