“Nice place,” said Johnny.
“I like it,” the other smiled. “Even like where it is. Know what? This shack is older than the place where you used to live! Funny, ain’t it? Just a wooden shack. But here she stands. Life’s funny that way.”
Johnny stared at his companion. His words did not affect him. It was what he did at this moment that counted most. Having removed his coat, he unstrapped a belt to lay an automatic pistol on his dresser. He did all this as if it were quite the customary thing, part of his day’s business.
“And this,” Johnny told himself with an inaudible gasp, “is neither in the movies nor in the wild and woolly West.”
“Well,” he told himself a moment later, “Whatever’s on, I’m in for it. I’ll not run.”
Johnny was no weakling, nor was he a coward. When opportunity permitted he spent an hour or two each day punching the bag or swinging the gloves at some real companion. He was a lightweight boxer of no mean ability, as you who have read our other books will know. Just at present he was at his best. Boxing had been denied him, but rugged mountain trails, the camp axe, and a six foot bow had offered opportunities for training that no indoor sports could match.
Nor was Johnny wholly unarmed. He had never in his life carried a revolver, yet in the corner where he had placed it, close at hand, was such a sturdy yew bow as might have gladdened the eye of Robin Hood. And beside it were six ashen arrows with points of steel keen as a razor blade.
“But this,” he told himself, “is Chicago. My native city. My home.”
“You’ll be feeling need of sleep,” said his companion of the hour. “That’s your bunk. Turn in when you wish. Don’t mind a little music to lull you to the land of dreams?” He snapped on a radio which stood, until now quite unnoticed by Johnny, in the corner.
“Not a bit. Something soft and low,” Johnny chuckled, “like the murmur of a mountain stream.”