“Hello, boy,” he said, putting out a big, brown hand for a shake. “Mind if I sit down awhile? Sort of like to see how the calls go out.”
“Not a bit,” Johnny smiled. “Glad to have company. Little dull lately. Robbery, shooting, burglary, shooting, holdup; that’s about the way it goes. Nothing really new.” He laughed a short laugh.
“Say!” the sergeant exclaimed, “You’ve got to hand it to this old burg. That stuff goes out all over the country. Everybody gets it. And they say, ‘What a terrible town!’
“But it’s not a bad town. I’ve lived in others. I know. They’re all alike. Difference is, others cover it all up. We don’t. You’ll see. When we shout enough, the crooks will begin clearing out. You—”
Johnny held up a finger. He listened. He wrote. He banged his gong. Then—
“Squads attention! Squads 36 and 37. Robbers in the second apartment at 1734 Wabash.”
“That’s the way it goes, is it?” said the sergeant. “Pretty quick work. When we get our own station it will be snappier. And only the squad cars will get the calls. Special low wave-length.”
For a time they sat in silence. Then Johnny’s telephone buzzed.
“Another call?” McCarthey asked in a low tone.
“Just a report on that last call.” Johnny’s eyes twinkled. “Got ’em. Got ’em four minutes after the call went out.”