On the night following Newton Mills’ great discovery, both the Old Timer and Johnny decided to accompany the others on their squad calls. Since Johnny was once more on the late squad calls at the radio station, he took with him his bow and arrows.
“We’ll just drop you off there later in the evening,” was Herman’s word to him.
It was well along toward midnight. They had chased down four radio calls to no purpose. It was beginning to look like another wasted night. They were parked north of the river on Main Street, when of a sudden there struck their waiting ears a call that promised much.
“The Roosevelt on Main!” Herman exclaimed in a breath. “That’s the place they picked the night Rosy was shot. Same gang. Came back for the rest of the roll. Step on the gas!”
The motor purred. The gong sounded. They were away. By some unusual chance, theirs was the first car to arrive.
They had not come to a standstill before Herman, Drew, Mills and two men in uniform were out of the car and bounding through the theatre door.
“Down there!” cried an excited youth in a green cap. “They went to the basement!”
Down the stair they plunged.
In the meantime Johnny, gripping his bow and arrow, and urged by who knows what instinct, raced around the building to enter an alley which ran at the back of the theatre’s stage.
Halfway down the stairs, Herman McCarthey suddenly found himself facing two stocky men. The foremost of these whipped out a gun and fired. The bullet grazed Herman’s cheek and lodged in a policeman’s thigh.