CHAPTER XVII

THE SERGEANT'S STORY

When Johnny returned to the shack that night his strange guest was still asleep. A third cot had been set up in the room. Understanding this, Johnny crept between the fresh, clean-feeling sheets, and was soon sleeping soundly.

When he awoke in the morning Drew was gone. His white-haired guest, Newton Mills, the man he had found, was seated on his bunk, chin cupped in hands, staring at the floor.

Johnny lay in his bunk watching him for a full quarter of an hour. In all that time he did not move so much as a finger.

This man fascinated Johnny. Does this seem strange? Who has not dreamed of coming upon a derelict at sea; of seeing her masts broken, bridge and gunwale gone, decks awash, yet carrying on, the wreck of a one-time magnificent craft? Could such a sight fail to bring to the lips an awe-inspired cry? How much more the wreck of a great man?

But was this a true derelict? This was the question that pressed itself upon Johnny's eager young mind. Many a drifting hulk, having been found sound of beam and keel, has been towed ashore to be refitted and sail the seas once more. So, too, it is with men. Thus Johnny's thoughts rambled on.

But what of this strange, prematurely gray man? What thoughts filled his mind at this hour? Or did he think?

Rousing himself, Johnny stepped from his bed, donned shirt, trousers and slippers to glide from the room and knock at that other door. Into Rosy's ready ear he whispered:

"Coffee for two. Stout! Black and strong!"

A short time later as he and the one-time great detective drank hot black coffee in silence, the door opened and Herman McCarthey entered. Johnny understood in an instant. Drew had sent him.

"Hello, Mills!" the sergeant exclaimed heartily. "Remember me, don't you? We worked together on the Romeri kidnapping case. That was, let me see, twelve years ago."

"Romeri." The man passed a hand before his face, as one will who brushes away a cobweb. "Romeri. Yes, I remember the case. And you, Herman McCarthey. Ah yes, Herman McCarthey. There were no stool pigeons in that case."

"No," said Herman, "there were none."

Conversation lagged. Herman sat down to drink a cup of coffee. He sighed, got up, walked across the floor, and sat down again.

"Tell you what," he said at last, looking at Johnny. "To-day's my day off. Going out to my place at Mayfair. It's quiet out there and mighty fine. To-morrow's Sunday. Supposing I take Mills out there for the week-end. You come out Sunday and stay all night. Then we'll come back to town in my car, the three of us. What do you say, Mills?"

The white-haired man rose with the air of one who has surrendered his will; like a prisoner who receives orders from a guard.

Herman McCarthey read the meaning of that act, and frowned. He did not, however, say, "Well, let's not go." He said nothing, but led the way. The other followed.

Johnny went with them to the sidewalk. There he stood and watched them board a west bound car. After that he turned about and walked thoughtfully back to the room. In his mind questions turned themselves over and over. "When is a man an empty shell? When is he a hopeless derelict?"

He thought of Herman McCarthey, alone out there at his country place with that terribly silent man, and was tempted to regret the steps he had taken.

He ended by drinking a second cup of coffee, then falling asleep in his chair.

* * * * * * * *

Next day Johnny went out to Herman McCarthey's place. He had no trouble finding the house. The town was small, only a tiny village, but filled with many stately trees.

He wondered a little as he walked up the gravel path. How was his man, his derelict? Would anything worth while come of this affair?

He found Newton Mills in the same condition as when he left the shack. He talked little, always of trivial matters. He ate almost nothing. At times a haunting desire was written on his face.

"Been like that all the time," Herman whispered to Johnny. "Can't tell how he'll come out. Seen many like him. Can't help it when you're a cop. They're like a lamp that's been burning a long time and gone dim. Some, if you give them a fresh supply of oil, flare up, then burn steadily again. Some don't. Last spark is gone. How about him? Who knows? Only God knows. We must do our best."

They spent the day in quiet rambles about the village and long periods of loafing on the porch.

Newton Mills retired early. That left Herman and Johnny to amuse themselves; not that the strange derelict had furnished them much amusement. In his bed at least he was no longer a burden.

The two, the seasoned detective and the boy, chose to sit the long evening through on the broad screened porch.

The still peace of the place seemed strange to the boy whose ears had become accustomed to the rattle of elevated trains, the shouts of newsboys and the miscellaneous din of a city's streets.

"It's so quiet," he said, looking away through the motionless leaves of stately trees, across the darkened lawn to the spot where the moon was rising.

"Yes," said Herman McCarthey, "it is quiet. Sometimes I like to feel that the peace of God hovers over the spot. Anyway, it's the only place I'll ever live.

"You know, of course, that you're supposed to live in Chicago if you're on the force," he went on. "But the Chief fixed that for me. It's only a rule; not a law.

"The Chief and I," and his tone became reminiscent, "were on the force together when we were young. We were in one fight which the Chief won't forget. Nor I, either.

"There was a tough gang down by the river. A shooting had been reported. We got there on the double-quick; too quick perhaps. We met 'em coming up the bank, all armed. They didn't wait for words. Just started in shooting. They got me in the shoulder first round. But I stood up to 'em and let 'em have it back. So did the Chief. One man went down.

"Of a sudden the bullet I had in me made me dizzy. I spun round and went down.

"The Chief stood up to 'em. A dozen rounds were fired before my head cleared. When it did, I propped my eyes open just in time to see one of them bending over the Chief, taking deadly aim. The Chief was down with a bullet in his back. That shot never was fired."

"You--you got him." It was Johnny who spoke.

"You said it, son."

"And that," said Herman McCarthey, "is why the Chief lets me live where I please.

"But that," he went on after a moment, "is not why I live here. Of course I've always loved the quiet peace of the open country. You need it after the day's rush and noise and all the squalid fuss you endure as a police officer. Somehow I have a notion that if a lot more of those city cave-dwellers lived out in places like this we wouldn't have so many to run down and put in jail. But who knows?

"That's not the whole reason either." He leaned forward in his chair. "I live here because it's the place where I spent my honeymoon."

"You--your--" Johnny stared at him through the darkness.

"Yes." Herman McCarthey's tone was deep. "I was married once.

"No. She didn't die. Just went away. They do that sometimes. She's living yet, and happy, I hope. Successful too, and prosperous. Buys dresses for a big store in New York, swell dresses they say. Goes to Paris every year and all that. Ten thousand a year, maybe more.

"You see," his tone became very thoughtful, "she married the wrong man. That happens too. I was only a cop, a plain ordinary policeman. Perhaps she married my uniform. Who knows?

"I brought her out here. She wasn't happy. 'Too still,' she said.

"So we took a flat in the city. But she wanted what I couldn't give, kind of a society life."

For a time, he stared away to the west where the first stars were appearing. Then he spoke again.

"I bought this place on payments. When we moved to the city I couldn't very well keep up the payments, so I let it all go; or thought I had.

"But when she'd left me and gone to New York I sort of felt like I'd like to come out and see the old place--the place where I'd spent my honeymoon.

"And what do you think? The man I'd bought the place from had saved it for me all that time! All I had to do was begin paying again, and it was mine.

"It's things like that that make me like quiet country places. Men do such things out here. Perhaps they do in the city, too. But somehow I feel that a man is a bit nearer God when he sees the dew on the grass, the red in the sunset, and the gold in the moon."

Again he was silent for a time.

"All this," he went on then, "hasn't made me bitter. It's the duty and grand privilege of most men to have a home and raise a family of youngsters. It's the duty of us all, especially of us officers of the law, to make it easy and safe for those boys and girls to grow up strong, clean, and pure. That's why an officer who doesn't do his whole duty is so much of a monster."