“Then how was it made? Where did you get it?”
Johnny sat down and this time told the story of the white fire through from the beginning. Only one thing he did not tell: He did not tell of testing the steel in the laboratory and of the bottle of brownish liquid on the top shelf.
The manager listened with rapt attention, now and then ejaculating: “Never heard of such a thing! Can’t believe it unless I see it myself! Impossible, young man! Impossible! Can’t believe it!”
“But here’s the forging to prove it,” insisted Johnny stoutly.
“Tell you what!” said the manager, “I’m willing to lose a night’s sleep over it, or part of one at least. We’ll try the thing out. We’ll see if the ghost walks to-night,” he laughed. “We’ll take out two of the long bars in the vault and one of the short ones. We’ll put them on the forge and—and if the fire comes and they get white-hot, we’ll cut the two long bars in half, and hammer four connecting-rods from them and one from the short one. That will give six with this one you have, making a full set for one of our chummy roadsters. Can you drive a car?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. If the ghost walks to-night, it’s a trip clear across the continent for you—all the way to the Golden Gate and back again! What say?”
“I—I—say all right,” stammered Johnny.
“Mind you,” warned Mr. McFarland, shaking his finger at Johnny, “that’s providing the white fire comes. But, pshaw! it won’t. Whoever heard of such a thing? But, anyway, I’ll be around at nine sharp.”
“Shall I bring Pant?” asked Johnny.