SWORN TO STAND BY
Johnny's return to the radio studio that night caused quite a sensation.
He arrived somewhat ahead of time. The girl who presided over the
switchboard, one floor lower than the studio proper, was still at her
post.
"Gee!" She stared at him, wide-eyed. "They nearly killed you, didn't
they?"
"Tried it, I guess," Johnny admitted.
"And still you came back?"
"Lightning never strikes twice in the same place," Johnny laughed.
"It does. I've seen it. Very same tree. Going to strike twice here, too.
Something tells me that. You'll see. They'll bomb this place. When those
Sicilians start a thing they never quit 'til they get what they want.
That's what my dad says. And he knows. I'm quitting; to-morrow night's my
last. Dad says, 'Let the police do their own work.' And that's what I
say, too."
"If the officers of the law were not backed up by the honest people of a
great city like this," Johnny replied thoughtfully, "nobody's life would
be safe for a moment. In such times as these every man must do his duty."
"Not for me, sonny, not for me! I know where there's a safe place to
work, and me for it!"
Johnny climbed the stairs with heavy steps, only to learn that his
operator of the night before had also quit.
"Quit us cold," was the way Bill Heyworth, the sturdy night manager and
chief announcer, put it. Bill was thirty, or past. He was a broad
shouldered Scotchman with a stubborn jaw. "Said he didn't want to be shot
at. Well," he philosophized, "guess nobody does. But somebody has to
carry on here. This thing is not going to stop because the gangs want it
stopped. In time, of course, the city will have a station of its own.
That will let us out. But until then the squad calls will go through if
we have to call upon the State Militia to protect us. This city, officer
and civilian, has set itself for a cleaning up. And a cleaning it shall
be!
"What's that?" he asked, as Johnny drew forth his six foot yew bow.
"A plaything, you might say," Johnny smiled. "Then again you might say it
has its practical side. I'll demonstrate."
Picking up a bundle of magazines, he set them on end atop a table against
the wall. The outermost magazine had an oval in the center of its
cover-jacket the size of a silver dollar.
Johnny drew back to the end of the room, then nocked an arrow and drove
it through the very center of that spot.
Bill Heyworth whistled. He whistled again when Johnny showed him that
four of the thick magazines had been pierced by the arrow's steel point.
"Of course," said Johnny, laughing low, "I don't expect ever to use it
here. But I'll feel safer if you allow me to turn that chair about so
I'll be facing the entrance to this studio and have this 'Silent Murder,'
as Drew Lane calls it, close at hand. Do I have your permission?"
"With all my heart, son. With all my heart. And you'll stick?"
"Till they drag me out by the feet!"
"Two of us!" The Scotchman put out a hand. Johnny gripped it tight, then
went to his post.
* * * * * * * *
The days that followed were quiet ones for Johnny. There needs must be
many quiet days in every life. These days, calm as a May morning, placid
as a mill pond, give us strength and fortitude for those stormy periods
that from time to time break upon us.
But these were not uninteresting days. Far from it. Hours spent in a
fresh environment, among new and interesting people, are seldom dull.
There are few more interesting places than the studio of a great radio
station. Besides the never ending stream of famous ones, great authors,
moving-picture actors, statesmen, musicians of high rank, opera singers,
and many more, there are the regulars, those who come night after night
with their carefully prepared programs planned to entertain and amuse a
tired world.
That he might cultivate the society of those more skilled, more famous
than he, Johnny arrived night after night an hour or two ahead of his
schedule.
He came, in time, to think of himself as one of them. And he gloried in
this rich environment.
Bill Heyworth, the night manager, was himself worthy of long study. A
doughty Scotchman, sturdy as an oak, dependable as an observatory clock,
brave as any who ever wore kilts, a three year veteran of the great World
War; yet withal, bubbling over with good humor, he was a fit pattern for
any boy.
Quite different, yet not less interesting, were the comedy pair, one very
slim, one stout, who came in every evening at ten o'clock to put on the
adventures of a German street band.
Not all the skilled musicians were transients. The Anthony Trio, piano,
violin and cello, might have graced the program on many a notable
occasion, yet here they were, night after night, sending out over the
ether their skillful renditions of the best that other times have
produced in the realm of music.
Dorothy Anthony, the violinist, a short, vivacious girl with a well
rounded figure and dancing blue eyes, seemed no older than Johnny
himself. Many a talk, gay and serious, they had, for Dorothy took her
outdoor adventures at second hand. She listened and exclaimed over
Johnny's experiences in strange lands, and insisted more than once upon
his demonstrating his skill by shooting at the magazines with his bow and
arrow.
As for his bow, it stood so long in the corner that it seemed certain
that it would dry out and become too brittle for real service in
emergency.
Though Johnny enjoyed the company of the great and the near-great, he
found most satisfaction in his association with a certain humble
individual who occupied a small space before the switchboard at the foot
of the stairs. And that person was none other than Rosy Ramacciotti.
Since Johnny had been told that Rosy was in need of work, he had hastened
to secure this position for her.
He had thought at first, because of her father's most unhappy death, she,
too, might be afraid. When he suggested this to her he was astonished by
the snapping of her black eyes as she exclaimed:
"Me afraid? No! I am Italian. Did you not know that? We Italians, we are
many things. Afraid? Never!"
So Rosy presided at the switchboard. Each night, during the hour that
preceded Rosy's departure and Johnny's taking up of his duties, they
enjoyed a chat about many, many things.
Nor did Drew Lane object; for, as he one night explained to Johnny, his
relations with the Ramacciottis were based on little more than a
charitable desire to be of service to someone.
"You have heard, I suppose," he said to Johnny one evening, "that there
is a society that looks after the families of policemen who lose their
lives in the service. That is a splendid enterprise.
"There are also many societies in existence that take care of the
interests of criminals and their families. That too, I suppose, is all
right.
"But where is the society that cares for the women and children made
widows and orphans by the bullets of gangsters, burglars, and robbers?
Never heard of one, did you?
"Well, some of us fellows of the Force decided to do what we could for
these.
"I learned of the Ramacciotti family. They had inherited a small candy
store and a large debt. They were paying sixty dollars a month flat rent,
and going bankrupt rapidly.
"I helped them sell out the store. Then I found these two shacks. Used to
be fishing shacks, I suppose, twenty-five years ago. Tried to find the
owner. Couldn't. So we moved in anyway. I pay for my room and morning
coffee. The furniture is Mrs. Ramacciotti's.
"I found her a small kitchen and dining room down street, where she
serves rare Italian dishes, ravioli a la Tuscany and the like. They are
doing very well, and are happy.
"Happy. That's it," he mused. "Everyone in the world has a right to be
happy. It's our duty, yours and mine, to be happy, and to do the best we
can to help others to their share of happiness."
"So that was how Drew came to live in such a strange place, and to be
interested in these unusual people." Johnny thought about this for a long
time after Drew had gone. His appreciation of the character of this young
detective grew apace as he mused. His interest in Rosy and her mother
also increased.