THE NAMELESS ONE
Next evening Johnny met some one who thrilled him to the very center of
his being. And yet, when he thought of it quite soberly in the shack
afterward, he could scarcely tell why.
He came, quite unexpectedly, upon “The Ferret.” It was in a little
underground restaurant where the walls were of imitation stone and all
the dishes of a curious Dutch pattern.
So much absorbed was “The Ferret” in something a youth about Johnny’s
age was saying that he did not notice Johnny at once. When at last he
did see him he sprang to his feet with an exclamation.
“What a lucky meeting! Let me introduce my—” He broke off abruptly,
appeared quite confused, then ended rather lamely, “Well—er—a friend who
is very much one of us. He has, you might say, a burning desire to be of
some service to his city.”
Johnny scarcely needed to be told that this youth was consumed by some
great desire. He could read it in the two smouldering coals of fire that
were his eyes. Indeed, as he recalled the meeting later and tried to
summon a mental picture of this new-found friend, he could visualize
only a pair of glowing eyes, that was all.
Johnny was invited to join them at their evening meal. What was said
during that half hour Johnny does not recall. That it was unimportant is
to be assumed. That which followed was important. The nameless youth
invited him for a walk. And what a walk it turned out to be!
At a rapid stride the stranger led the way straight out of the business
section of the city into a wilderness of apartment houses. Nor did he
pause here. On and on they went. A mile of streets filled with children,
of apartments where home lights were glowing. Here, through some windows
they caught glimpses of little circles gathered around the evening meal,
of happy groups about a piano, or some elderly couple seated reading
beside a lamp.
A mile of this, two miles, three. Few words were spoken. “And this is
what he calls a little walk!” Johnny all but groaned aloud.
Still there was no pause. Four miles, then five and six. Johnny was
beginning to believe it was a practical joke, when suddenly the strange
youth turned upon him.
“Johnny Thompson,” he said, with his eyes fairly glowing in the night,
“have you seen those homes?”
“Yes, I—”
“How many were there?”
“Thousands.”
“How many honest people live in them?”
“Most people are honest.”
“That’s it!” The boy’s tone was deeply earnest. “Here is a city filled
for the most part by honest folks. Yet it is ridden by crooked
politicians and grafters; it is in the grip of the criminal element.
This grip cannot, or at least has not been shaken.
“Do you know what I believe, Johnny Thompson?” He gripped Johnny’s arm.
“I believe that this world was made for good, honest, generous,
clean-minded people to live in, and that when it has become impossible
for such people to live without being poisoned by moonshine, robbed by
grafters or shot by holdup men, it is time for some of those who are
honest and good and clean to die that their city may be made right
again.”
“So that was it,” thought Johnny. “A sermon.
“Mighty impressive one, at least. And I believe he is sincere.”
“That’s all right,” Johnny replied a moment later, thinking things out
as he went along. “It’s well enough to take a sporting chance, to join
hands with those who endeavor to enforce the law, to help them try to
work the thing out.
“But just to throw yourself in the face of certain death—if that’s what
you mean—”
“I mean just that.”
“Well, then,” Johnny drawled, “all I have to say is, life is mighty
sweet to me. I like to see the sunrise over the water in some
deep-shaded bay, to see it set amid the golden glory of the clouds, to
see the stars come out one by one.
“I love music the best of all. I like to hear children sing and see them
go skipping over the grass.
“No, my friend,” he added soberly, “I’m willing to take a chance. But
when it is no longer a chance, when death becomes a grim certainty,
I—I’m afraid you’d have to leave me out.”
The youth said not another word. They boarded a street car and went
rattling back to the heart of the city. All the way the nameless one sat
with chin on breast. The fire that was in his eyes appeared to have
burned out.
And yet, as they left the car he exclaimed with renewed heat: “All the
same, I am sure there is no other way!”
Johnny was to recall this statement long after, and marvel at it.
“Johnny,” the stranger said, as they stood at the parting of the ways,
“Johnny,” his tone was very serious, “tell me about these two young
detectives. Are they grandstand players?”
“Grandstand players!” Johnny’s tone showed his astonishment.
“Some one has said they are. I wouldn’t want—well, no matter what I
wouldn’t want to do. But you know them. Tell me the truth.”
“Grandstand players!” Johnny was indignant. “If you were held up by a
man whose criminal record for robbery and killing is as long as your
arm; if you were off duty and armed only with a small pistol, while he
had a regular cannon; if you tackled him alone in the dark, with no one
to watch the play; if you fought him for ten minutes; if he got his gun
to your head and pulled the trigger, but it failed to go off; if he bit
you to the bone, fighting like a demon; if you won at last; if you got
your man, would you call that grandstand stuff?”
“No,” said the boy solemnly, “I wouldn’t.”
“Drew Lane did that. And Tom Howe is not one inch behind him. If all the
coppers in this town were as square and as fearless as Drew Lane and Tom
Howe, this city would be clean.”
Johnny told the youth with the burning eyes much more about his two pals
of the police department. To his surprise, he found him taking notes.
This, too, he was to recall long after.
“Thanks. Er—thanks a heap! You’ve helped me no end,” the boy said at
last. “Good-night.” And he was gone.
“That,” said Johnny, as he walked slowly down the boulevard and across
the river, “is one queer chap. He’s up to something, I’ll be bound.
“But then, if he wasn’t on the up and up, ‘The Ferret’ would never have
introduced him to me. And then again, I wonder if ‘The Ferret’ ever
makes a mistake.”