Long before sleep gave his tired eyes rest, however, he pondered over the strange doings of the mysterious white fire, and well he might, for as the days passed that mystery was destined to become more intricately complicated, more strangely baffling on each succeeding day.
Arriving at the factory, as was his custom, a full ten minutes before work for the day, Johnny, next morning, was surprised to find a boy waiting for him with a message from William McFarland, manager of and large stockholder in the plant, his father’s old-time friend.
“What’s he want, sonny?” Johnny smiled.
“Don’t know; jes’ wants to see you at the office.”
“Something to do with that white fire,” was Johnny’s mental comment.
“Johnny,” said the industrial leader, motioning him to a chair, “when I gave you a job in our salvage department you said something about adventure.”
Johnny smiled and nodded.
“You’ve had some adventures,” the magnate scowled, “that ought to have been profitable.”
“How—how?” Johnny stammered.
“Don’t matter how I found out. The point is you should have saved a lot of money from the proceeds of those adventures. Apparently you haven’t. There was that gold mine in Siberia; I’m told it was a new Klondike.”