“Don’t say it.” The reporter put a hand on his arm. “Think it over. Iron bars; work in a shoe factory run by the State, behind iron bars.”
He was gone.
“Well, I’ll be—” Johnny stared after him. What did it all mean, anyway? A whispering reporter with such a warning.
Just what Johnny thought of this whole affair after ten minutes of reflection may be judged by what he did.
Pulling his cap down over his eyes in a determined way he made for the street.
“Shoes,” he grumbled. “Always did want to know how to make a pair of shoes. Lots of people can write a book or paint a picture. How many of them could make a pair of shoes. And you can learn all that for practically nothing.” He chuckled in a mirthless sort of way.
“I’ll find that missing aviator,” he told himself. “And then, we’ll—then we’ll see.”
CHAPTER XIII
SECRET SERVICE
The young Air Mail pilot whom Johnny had, for the tenth time that day, decided to search out, had not been idle.
Two long hours he had crouched beside the wall of the museum waiting for the one who had robbed him of the precious, mysterious package. He waited in vain. At last he gave up hope.