“Till they drag me out by the feet!”
“Two of us!” The Scotchman put out a hand. Johnny gripped it tight, then went to his post.
* * * * * * * *
The days that followed were quiet ones for Johnny. There needs must be many quiet days in every life. These days, calm as a May morning, placid as a mill pond, give us strength and fortitude for those stormy periods that from time to time break upon us.
But these were not uninteresting days. Far from it. Hours spent in a fresh environment, among new and interesting people, are seldom dull.
There are few more interesting places than the studio of a great radio station. Besides the never ending stream of famous ones, great authors, moving-picture actors, statesmen, musicians of high rank, opera singers, and many more, there are the regulars, those who come night after night with their carefully prepared programs planned to entertain and amuse a tired world.
That he might cultivate the society of those more skilled, more famous than he, Johnny arrived night after night an hour or two ahead of his schedule.
He came, in time, to think of himself as one of them. And he gloried in this rich environment.
Bill Heyworth, the night manager, was himself worthy of long study. A doughty Scotchman, sturdy as an oak, dependable as an observatory clock, brave as any who ever wore kilts, a three year veteran of the great World War; yet withal, bubbling over with good humor, he was a fit pattern for any boy.
Quite different, yet not less interesting, were the comedy pair, one very slim, one stout, who came in every evening at ten o’clock to put on the adventures of a German street band.