JOHNNY’S JIMMY
In the meantime Red Rodgers, the object of all this activity in a great
city, sat at a small table in a cozy cabin on Isle Royale, hundreds of
miles away, calmly sipping the broth from a delicious Mulligan stew
(which, by the way, is made by cooking up everything you have in the way
of meat and vegetables, then adding much sliced bacon and many onions).
The stew was good. The cabin was warm. The hour was late. When Red had
emptied his bowl he sat back to nod drowsily.
“It’s good to be lazy and comfortable and to do nothing,” he murmured. It
seemed to him now that he had somehow been drugged. Never before had he
felt so little desire for action. “I wish those crooks would leave us
alone,” he thought to himself. “I wish I could sleep for a week.”
But what was this? A voice sounded in the room, a strange voice. And what
was this man saying?
“The listening world will be interested to know that while the football
star, officially known as the Red Rover—”
“Red—Red Rover.” The boy sat up, quite awake now. “Why, that is the
radio! They’re talking about me. And here I am listening in.”
“Yes,” the scout chuckled, “that’s Chicago. Haven’t listened to that
station before, or I’d have known. Bet they’re broadcasting reports every
hour.”
“About me?”
“Why not? You’re a star.”
“A star to-day; to-morrow a steel mill worker. What does one star more or
less matter?”
For all that, he sat up and listened with increasing interest as the
speaker told of all that was being done to apprehend the kidnapers and
return the Rover to his team.
“Good old Drew Lane,” he murmured. “He’ll get ’em. You’ll see.”
But after all—. His spirits drooped. After all, what could it matter? He
might discover who the kidnapers were. But would he trace them to Isle
Royale? Ah, no. That was expecting too much!
He felt a tightening at his throat as he thought of his team mates and
the coach, the Grand Old Man, doing their best to stave off defeat. “It’s
not that I’m so important as an individual,” he told himself humbly, “but
I’m part of the piece, like one stone in an arch. Without me the team
must fail.
“Why am I here?” he cried out suddenly, springing to his feet. “How can I
get away?”
“Perhaps you can’t,” the guide said quietly. “We’ll do the best we can.
“Listen!” The guide blew out the lamp, then quietly opened the door.
Bing, the dog, uttered a low growl. He was silenced by his master.
From somewhere away off in the dark came a weird, wild call. It was
answered here and answered there. Then such a chorus as never before was
heard on sea or land rose above the sound of rushing water and sighing
pines.
“Wolves,” Ed commented briefly. “Bush wolves. Hundreds of ’em on the
island. They’re all singing to-night. There will be a storm. Listen
again.
“There is a little sea to-night. To-morrow it will be raging. The
distance from Rock of Ages on this island to the mainland is seventeen
miles. Rock of Ages is forty miles from here. There are power boats here,
but no gasoline. You’d have to row. You’d never make it.”
“Our only chance is Passage Island,” Berley Todd put in.
“Absolutely! But that is four miles from Blake’s Point. Four miles of
raging black waters. And Lake Superior never gives up her dead. No. No,
son. You’ll be staying here a spell yet. And why not? Really you should
see a little of Rock Harbor while you’re here. That’s what they say in
summer.” He laughed. “Why not now?”
Red was to see something of Rock Harbor indeed. Pictures of this unusual
little corner of the world were to hang for many a day on the walls of
his memory. Some of these he would cherish, and some he would be glad to
forget.
* * * * * * * *
Next morning, in the distant city, there was a council of war. Drew Lane,
Tom Howe and Johnny Thompson sat around Drew’s desk. Coffee had been sent
up in a tin pail. They were imbibing freely as they talked.
“The police drag-net caught never a thing,” Drew announced. “They’ve
vanished, all that gang belonging to the fiery-eyed fellow, the big man
and his son, the three just alike, and the two others. And that,” he
sighed, “leaves us just where we were. We have the gun that was fired at
you, Tom, but we haven’t the man. The Red Rover is still a captive. And
why? Will you answer me that? Have the authorities over at Old Midway
received demands for ransom money?”
“Not a scratch.” Tom’s brow wrinkled. “Had them on the wire half an hour
ago. There’s another case up just now, too; just as strange in a way.
Little lady named Berley Todd; old man Todd’s daughter, steel magnate, or
something of the sort. Not a word from her either, though that’s not our
problem. We’re out to find the Red Rover.”
“Yes, and that promises to be enough to keep us awake nights.
“Tom,” Drew’s tone changed, “did you ever hear of a pocket knife
convicting a man?”
“Stabbing case?”
“No, whittling, just plain whittling.”
“Why, yes. Let me see. There was one. A fellow shot a former partner of
his. Trapper he was, I think. He built a blind of green willow branches.
Cut the branches with his pocket knife. Shot the fellow behind this
blind. The sheriff found the blind. Then he found the knife in the
fellow’s cabin. He sent the knife and willow stubs to the Crime
Laboratory. They studied the knife blade and the cuttings. That was the
knife all right; irregularities in the cuttings were the same as on the
knife blade. The trouble was, they couldn’t prove that the knife had not
been planted in the fellow’s cabin, so the thing fell through.”
“Sounds interesting.” Drew drained his cup. “Wish you’d take a look at
these through your microscope.” He pushed a handful of shavings toward
his partner. “The Galloping Ghost left them, you remember.
“And here is the collection of pocket knives. You’ll be able to tell
whether one of these did the whittling.
“You see,” he explained, “some fellow connected with the kidnaping sat
and whittled while he waited for the Red Rover to fall asleep.
“Strange how often men’s habits convict them,” he philosophized. “If
you’re a whittler you’ll have your knife out on every occasion,
whittling, just whittling.
“This man,” he took up a shaving, “must be a nervous sort. See how short
these are. If he were a meditative person, quite at ease, he would take
long, smooth strokes.”
“I’ll look these over.” Tom swept the shavings into an envelope. “There
might be something in it. Can’t afford to neglect the least clue. If it
interests the old G.G. it should have our attention. By the way, what’s
your idea about this Galloping Ghost? Who is he? And what’s he after?”
“You answer.” Drew grinned. “All I know is that he seems to be on our
side. That’s enough for the present. I—
“Be careful!” He turned suddenly to Johnny. “Don’t bend that. It might be
important.”
“What is it?” The boy held up a thin bit of sheet aluminum that had been
pressed into a curious form.
“That,” Tom explained, “is an impression taken from the bottom of a
sleeping car window. When the Red Rover was kidnaped the window was
jimmied. The end of the bar made a deep impression in the wood. It was an
old bar with several nicks in it. If I ever come upon it I could identify
it by this impression.”
“This,” said Johnny, “is getting too deep for me. Invisible footprints on
sheets. Shavings from some whittler’s knife. Impressions in wood. These
are to bring a man to justice. Pipe dreaming, I call it.
“By the way!” he exclaimed. “I have a jimmy bar all my own. Saved it from
a watery grave.”
Stepping to the corner he produced a paper-wrapped package and then
revealed the bar he had taken from the speed boat of Angelo Piccalo,
Junior.
“Let’s have a look!” Tom Howe’s eyes fairly bulged.
“Say, boy!” he cried ten seconds later. “That’s the bar! Where’d you get
it?”
“Why, what do you mean? The bar?”
“I mean it’s the bar that pried that car window open. See! The impression
fits exactly. I say! Where’d you get it?”
“Nothing to get excited about,” Johnny grumbled. “Some one stuck it in
the back of Angelo’s speed boat. Young Angelo, you know, son of the
flower shop man.”
“Back of the boy’s speed boat. Humph!” Slouching down in his chair, Tom
fell into a brown study.
“I’ll dig into this whittling business,” he said, at last rousing
himself. “There might be something in it. You never can tell.”