It happened thus to Curlie Carson. With the precious mail sack tucked securely beneath one elbow, he rode into the night while the taximeter ticked off the miles. The driver he had chanced upon was skillful and safe. He knew his city well. The street address was all he needed. In due course of time he brought the cab to a jolting stop.
The fee was soon paid, and Curlie found himself passing down a winding walk bordered on either side by a low hedge which led to a quiet looking gray brick house.
A light was burning in the front window on the second floor. His hand trembled as he pressed the door bell. He had risked so much. He had broken the laws of the postal service, laws that until now had been all but sacred to him. What if, after all, he were too late? What if that light were but a death watch?
Footsteps sounded. A light, hanging in a brass lantern above him, suddenly shone down upon him.
The door opened. A middle-aged man in a gray dressing robe stood before him.
“Is—is the Professor here?” he asked.
“I am the Professor.” The man’s tone was kindly.
“I am from the Air Mail service. There was medicine. I have—”
“The medicine! Where is it?”
“Then,” thought Johnny, “it is not too late.”