“A forty-five,” he said, turning it over. “Not a bad gun. And full of slugs. Reminds me of one that nearly did for me once. Tell you about it sometime.”
At that they turned and walked quietly away from the scene of the near tragedy.
Where was the intruder? Gone. What of Johnny’s arrow? What damage had it done? Perhaps the light of day would answer some of these questions. At present it was time for Johnny to hasten away to his nightly vigil in the squad call corner.
CHAPTER XIII
A MARKED MAN
Johnny’s work at the studio never failed to fascinate him. The noon hours were pure routine. But at night, when squad calls came thick and fast—that was the time!
An entire symphony orchestra might be crashing its way through some magnificent concerto. No matter. The squad operator spoke a few words in Johnny’s ear. He jotted down those words. He pressed a button twice. For one brief second the air, a thousand miles around, grew tensely silent. Then Clang! Clang! Clang! And after that, Johnny’s voice: “Squads, attention! Squad 16. A shooting at Madison and Ashland.” Ah! There was power for you; a little press of a button and all the world stood by.
Each night brought to his ears a terse description of some new form of violence.
“You’d think,” he said to Drew once, “that the whole city had turned criminal.”
“But it hasn’t,” Drew replied thoughtfully. “Only one person in three hundred is a professional criminal. Don’t forget that. If you want to know what that means, go somewhere and watch a turnstile. Count three hundred people as they pass through. Then say ‘ONE.’ Big, like that. That stands for one crook. Then begin all over again, and count three hundred.” Johnny tried that, and derived a deal of assurance from the experiment. It gave him the comforting feeling that one might have who has three hundred friends arrayed solidly behind him, row on row, while a single enemy stands across the way.
But were these truly ready to stand back of law and justice? “If they are not,” he told himself, “it is because of ignorance. If they do not know the truth they must be told.” Johnny hurried back to the shack as soon as his work was done, on the night of his curious adventure down by the slip. He had no desire to go prowling about those abandoned sheds again that night. He did wish to be abroad the first thing in the morning. He wanted to discover, if possible, how the would-be assassin had made his escape. He was also curious to discover whether or not his arrow had gone with the stranger.