CHAPTER XI

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.