ONLY A VOICE
Johnny Thompson’s recollection of that affair in the tunnel will always
remain decidedly vague. A wild face, a fleeing form, a voice in the
dark, a terrific explosion, and after that darkness and silence.
Some workmen saw a tall, mud-bedraggled figure emerging from the deep
gash in the earth which formed the setting for their day of toil. By the
time they had found Johnny, this mysterious figure had vanished.
Johnny was taken to the Jefferson Street First Aid Station. There it was
found that he was suffering from nervous shock and a bump on the head. A
warm room and a steaming cup of coffee did much to restore him. As for
the bump, it might interfere with his hat for a day or two; otherwise it
was not serious.
“Where was I?” he asked of the nurse, when he felt himself capable of
straight thinking.
“You were found in a hole where they are preparing to build a
skyscraper.”
“But I was in the tunnel.”
“The tunnel?” The nurse had not heard of it.
Johnny told her about it. “It’s down forty feet underground,” he ended.
“How could I have come to the top?”
“Probably swam,” the nurse laughed. “You’d better forget all about it.”
Johnny did not take her advice. He puzzled over the affair for some
time. Later fortune would lead him to the spot where he had been found.
After watching the workmen shovel earth into the hole that led to the
tunnel, he would guess that he had come up through that hole. His manner
of coming would remain a mystery for some time.
Late that afternoon Drew Lane brought Johnny a fresh suit of clothes.
When he had dressed they went together to the shack which you will
recall as their home.
There they spent an evening in quiet talk. Drew Lane said things were no
better at the police court. He and Tom Howe were kept standing around
like old men with rheumatism, or racing around on errands like messenger
boys.
“Marking time,” he sighed. “Doing nothing of real use. All our knowledge
of crime and criminals going to waste. And still the crime wave goes
merrily on. Three killings so far this week.
“Tom is thinking of asking for a transfer to outlying districts where he
can walk a beat. Says there he can at least help little children over
dangerous crossings, and that’s something.
“But I won’t do it.” He rose to pace the floor. “I’m going to stick it
out. Things will change. You’ll see. We’ll get a break. We—”
He came to a sudden pause. He listened. The radio had been on—music, and
they had not been conscious of it. But now, as on that other night, some
one broke in with the words:
“I am the Voice.”
“The Voice.” Drew wrinkled his brow. “What voice?”
“Listen!” Johnny held up a hand.
They did listen. For fifteen minutes not a sound was heard in the room
save this voice coming in from the air.
This night the Voice told the people of the city what he thought of
certain men they had elected to office: the mayor, certain aldermen, the
heads of boards. He charged them with graft and corruption, of winking
at thefts from the city treasury.
“Those are hard words!” was Drew Lane’s comment when the Voice had
ended. “But every word is true. How does he get his facts, I wonder?”
“That fellow,” he added after a time, “will get himself bumped off.
They’ll put him on the spot.”
“How can they, when he’s only a voice?”
“Only a voice? Who’s only a voice? They’ll find him.”
“I don’t believe it. Do you know,” Johnny smiled, “the other night he
talked about you and about Tom Howe, too? What he said then was true,
too; only he didn’t go very far. If I only could, I’d tell him; but I
can’t. He’s only a voice.”
“Only a voice,” Drew Lane mused. “Only a voice, and with many a great
message to deliver to the countless thousands who listen in every night.
What an opportunity! And yet, only a voice? It can’t be done. I tell
you, Johnny, they are devils, these crooks! They’d hunt you out and put
you on the spot, kill you. Know what I mean?”
“I hope they don’t.” Johnny’s words were almost a prayer.