THE RETURN OF PANTHER EYE
After accompanying the police boat to the island and having watched in
silence the investigation made by the police, which was followed by a
short search for the man who had visited the island with such tragic
results, Johnny returned at once to the city and there made straight
toward the river bridge.
Imagine his surprise when, upon setting foot on the bridge, he discovered
light shining through the crack left by the closed shutters of his
window.
“Waiting for me,” he muttered. “Wonder which of them it is? Well, let
them wait,” he added fiercely, “I’m not so defenseless as I might seem.”
He put a hand to his side pocket. A friendly policeman, finding Johnny
unarmed as they searched the island, had pressed a small automatic upon
him and had forgotten to take it back. Johnny was now thankful for the
oversight.
Without a second’s hesitation, but keeping a sharp lookout that he might
not be ambushed by some guard stationed outside, he crossed the bridge,
dodged down a narrow alley and having reached the ground floor door that
led to the back stairs, paused to listen.
Having heard no sound, he pushed open the door, closed it noiselessly
behind him, then went tip-toeing softly up the steps. At the second
landing he paused to listen, yet he heard no sound.
“That’s queer,” he whispered as he resumed his upward climb.
As he reached his own door he recalled an old copy-book axiom: “Delays
are dangerous.” So, gripping his automatic with one hand, he turned the
knob with the other and threw the door wide open.
Imagine his surprise at seeing a single figure slumped down in a chair,
apparently fast asleep.
The person had his back to him. There was something vaguely familiar
about that back. Slowly a smile of pleasant anticipation spread over
Johnny’s face.
“If it only were,” he whispered.
Tip-toeing to a position which gave him a side view of the still
motionless figure, he stared for a second, then there came upon his face
an unmistakable smile as he exclaimed:
“Pant! You old trump you!”
It was indeed Pant, the Panther Eye you have known for some time, that
strange boy who had accomplished so many seemingly impossible things
through his power to see in the night and to perform other magical
tricks.
“Why, it’s you!” said Pant, waking up and dragging off his heavy glasses
to have a good look at Johnny. “I figured you’d be back sooner or later.”
“Pant,” said Johnny, lowering himself unsteadily into a chair, “there was
never a time in all my checkered career when I was so glad to see you.”
“You must be in pretty deep,” grinned Pant, “‘powerful deep,’ they’d say
in the mountains.”
“But Pant, what happened?” asked Johnny. “How does it come you left the
mountains so soon?”
Pant put on a sad face. “Those mountain people are superstitious, Johnny,
terribly superstitious.”
“Are they?”
“Are they? Why look, Johnny, we were having a school election down there,
regular kind. Everybody wanted his sister or his cousin or his daughter
in as teacher. We were about evenly divided and were fighting it out fair
enough with the great American institution, the ballot, when an argument
came up in which Harrison Crider, their clerk of election, knocked Cal
Nolon out of his chair. Right there is where things began to start. There
were fifteen or twenty on a side, all armed and all packed in one room
twenty feet square. You can see what it was going to be like, Johnny.”
Pant paused to go through the motion of mopping his brow.
“They were all standing there loaded and charged, like bits of steel on
the end of a magnet, when a strange thing happened.” He paused to stare
at the wall.
“What happened?” asked Johnny.
“Well, sir, it was one of those queer things, ‘plumb quare,’ they’d call
it down in the mountains, one of those things you can’t explain—at least
most people can’t.”
“But what did happen?” Johnny demanded.
“That’s what I’m coming to,” drawled Pant. “Well, sir, believe me or not,
there came such a brilliant flash of light as was never before seen on
sea or land (at least that’s what they all say. I didn’t see it; had my
eyes shut tight all the time). And after that, so they say, there was
darkness, a darkness so black you couldn’t see your hand. ‘Egyptian
darkness,’ that’s what they called it, Johnny. You’ve heard of that. It
tells about it in the Bible, the plague of darkness.
“It only lasted three minutes; but would you believe it, Johnny, when the
three minutes were up there wasn’t a bit of fight left in them? No sir,
limp as rags, every man of ’em. And the election after that was as calm
and sedate as a Quaker sewing society.
“But, Johnny,” Pant’s face took on a sad expression, “would you believe
it? After it was all over those superstitious people accused me of the
whole affair; said I was a witch and that I produced that darkness by
incantation. Now Johnny, I leave it to you, was that fair? Would you
think that of me?”
“No, Pant,” said Johnny with a grin, “I wouldn’t. I know you’re no witch,
and I know any incantation you might indulge in wouldn’t get you a thing.
But as for creating that darkness, I’d say it was a slight trick compared
with others I’ve seen you do.”
“Ah, Johnny,” sighed Pant, “I can see the whole world’s against me.”
“But Johnny!” he exclaimed, changing suddenly from his attitude of mock
gloom to one of alert interest, “what’s the lay? To tell the honest
truth, I’ve been bored to death down there. I knew if I could find you
I’d be able to mix in with something active. So here I am. What have you
to offer?”
“Plenty!” said Johnny. “And, thank God, you’re here to take a hand.”