CHAPTER IV
BACK IN THE OLD SHACK
Johnny was not out for good. But his return to consciousness was gradual. He began to hear things dimly as in a dream. There was a certain melody and harmony about the sounds, like a pipe organ played softly at night. This was shot through at times by a loud pop-pop-crack. Had memory returned, the boy might have thought they were fighting it out over his prostrate form, those men and the police.
Memory did not return. A drowsy feeling of painless well-being swallowed him up. He did not struggle against it, did not so much as wish to struggle. For all that, his eyes began seeing things—one more step on the way to full consciousness.
Like someone seen dimly in the clouds, as they do it in the movies, a vaguely familiar face appeared above him. A narrow, rather dark, tense face it was, with large eyes that seemed to burn with a strange fire.
“Joy—Joyce Mills,” his lips whispered.
“Yes, Johnny. We’re glad you’re back.”
“Back?” He pondered that last word. “Back to what?”
He began to feel things—a third step in his return to the realm of reality. The cold fog was gone, he knew that. The darkness too was gone. A subdued light was all about him.
“Back,” he thought once more, “back to what?”
Then, as if reading this thought, the girl said, “You are back in the shack on Grand Avenue. Don’t you remember?”