“I—I don’t know. Truly I don’t. But look! Look what he’s done!”
“Where’s the light switch?” Mike advanced into the studio, tripped over a trap drum, dropped his gun; then said some words appropriate to the occasion.
“Here. Just a moment.”
The operator, who was rapidly regaining the power of his senses, touched a switch and the room was flooded with light; so, too, was Johnny’s cubby-hole.
“They—he shot at me,” stammered the operator, once more thrown into confusion at sight of Johnny’s still form crumpled up beneath the debris.
“Who shot?” demanded Mike.
“I—I don’t know.”
“You don’t know much. Looks like they’d done for this boy here. And why, I wonder? That’s always the question. Why? Here, give us a hand. Let’s get him out of here. Somebody call the house doctor.”
Relieved to find there was something definite he might do, the young operator got the doctor on the phone at once.
“He’ll be up right away,” he reported.