Next day Johnny went out to Herman McCarthey’s place. He had no trouble finding the house. The town was small, only a tiny village, but filled with many stately trees.
He wondered a little as he walked up the gravel path. How was his man, his derelict? Would anything worth while come of this affair?
He found Newton Mills in the same condition as when he left the shack. He talked little, always of trivial matters. He ate almost nothing. At times a haunting desire was written on his face.
“Been like that all the time,” Herman whispered to Johnny. “Can’t tell how he’ll come out. Seen many like him. Can’t help it when you’re a cop. They’re like a lamp that’s been burning a long time and gone dim. Some, if you give them a fresh supply of oil, flare up, then burn steadily again. Some don’t. Last spark is gone. How about him? Who knows? Only God knows. We must do our best.”
They spent the day in quiet rambles about the village and long periods of loafing on the porch.
Newton Mills retired early. That left Herman and Johnny to amuse themselves; not that the strange derelict had furnished them much amusement. In his bed at least he was no longer a burden.
The two, the seasoned detective and the boy, chose to sit the long evening through on the broad screened porch.
The still peace of the place seemed strange to the boy whose ears had become accustomed to the rattle of elevated trains, the shouts of newsboys and the miscellaneous din of a city’s streets.
“It’s so quiet,” he said, looking away through the motionless leaves of stately trees, across the darkened lawn to the spot where the moon was rising.
“Yes,” said Herman McCarthey, “it is quiet. Sometimes I like to feel that the peace of God hovers over the spot. Anyway, it’s the only place I’ll ever live.