CHAPTER XIX

A NIGHT’S GRIM BATTLE

Johnny’s journeys on foot that night were long and varied. In the spur leading to the museum there were no lights. He was obliged to depend upon his electric torch. This cast weird shadows. Every now and then he fancied he detected a crouching figure ahead. Each time as he advanced it proved to be only a pile of supplies in a niche in the wall, or a padlocked tool box.

“Probably no one anywhere,” he grumbled to himself. “Great waste of time.”

He was wrong. There was someone.

Coming at last to the end of the museum spur, he examined the elevator carefully. He did not attempt to ascend to the museum as Curlie had done. Instead, he turned and retraced his steps.

On the return journey he did not exercise the caution resorted to on coming to the museum. It did not seem necessary. He was looking for someone who might be in hiding. The person had not been found. It was natural to suppose that on his return he would find no one.

In this world one must learn that nothing may be taken for granted. With his flashlight pointed at his toes, Johnny had not gone a hundred paces on his return journey before, to his vast surprise, a figure sprang up from the darkness directly before him and went sprinting down the track.

So astonished was he that for a full ten seconds he stood motionless. This gave the fugitive a start.

“Must have been following me,” Johnny’s mind registered at last. “Wonder why?”

The next thought was: “He may be my man!” This startled him into action. Throwing his light far ahead, he saw the man plainly, even his face, for just then he looked back.

It was a wild sort of face, with a stubby beard, unkempt hair and no hat.

“That,” he thought, “is not my man. And yet—a day and a night in a tunnel. Who knows?”

At that he sprang away after the fugitive.

From the museum to the main line of tunnel is three eighths of a mile. The man was not a good runner. Johnny was. He gained. Foot by foot, yard by yard, rod by rod, he shortened the distance between them. Now he was five hundred feet behind, now three hundred, now two hundred, now—

But suddenly, as they neared the main line, the fugitive stopped. He appeared to place something in the center of the track. Then at redoubled speed he raced on.

At that moment Johnny seemed to hear a voice cry:

“Stop! Go back! Back!”

Was it a human voice? Was it a superhuman voice, or was it no voice at all? In the light of that which followed Johnny will always believe it to have been a human voice.

At any rate, he obeyed. He stopped.

It was well that he did. Ten seconds had not passed when the whole world appeared to have been blown into fragments.

Johnny was thrown twenty feet, to go crashing against the wall. He rolled over once, then lay quite still.

For a short time the place remained in utter silence. Then there was a sound; but Johnny did not hear it. It was a most ominous sound. It increased in volume as the seconds passed. It was the sound of rushing water. Above the tunnel, between it and the surface of the street run the great water mains that quench the city’s thirst and protect it from devastating fires. The explosion had torn away the thin tunnel wall and had broken one of these water mains.

What would follow was a thing prearranged and quite automatic. Great iron doors at the end of the museum spur would close. This would confine the flood to the spur. The main tunnel would be safe from flood. In time the motor would be shut off and the main mended. Not, however, until the museum spur had been filled with water, perhaps for hours.

In the meantime Johnny lay where he had fallen. He was quite still. Was it the stillness of death?

Before the low rising tide of water, rats, a whole army of them, went scurrying away. Some raced over the boy’s unconscious form. Still he did not stir. And Johnny had always held rats in great abhorrence.

Creeping like some vile reptile, the water advanced. Now at a depth of two inches, it reached the boy. It rose.

And now at last the prostrate form appeared to stir. High time, too!

Did he throw out an arm? No. It was but the water lifting the arm.

So this was the end. And such an end for so gallant a soul! Ever striving to be of service. Always on the side of the right. Forever fighting ignorance, cupidity and crime. What a pity! Well, they had got him at last. Put him on the spot, perhaps. Who knows?

The water became deeper. The silent form, even in its defeat, appeared to struggle against death. It rose and sank, rose and sank.

But what is this? Comes a splashing. A figure is approaching, an odd figure, one clothed from head to toe in a long gray coat and a gray cap. His face is all but hidden by this cap and a gray beard.

Had Johnny’s lips moved, they would have said:

“The Gray Shadow.”

They did not move.

And now began one of the grimmest battles ever fought in the dark. From this spot to the main tunnel was but half a block. But there the door was closed. There appeared to remain but one hope, the museum end.

Seeming to realize this the strange being, who appeared possessed of great strength, lifted the boy to his shoulders and began making his way through the flood to that distant goal.

The distance was long. The water rose rapidly. Now the water rose to his knees, now to his thighs, now to his chest. He had covered but half the distance when he was lifted off his feet and obliged to swim.

Undaunted, he struggled on; yet what hope was there? The water now filled half the tunnel. The end could be but a few moments away. To reach the museum was impossible. Yet the gallant Gray Shadow struggled on.

The space above the water narrowed. Now it was four feet, now three, now two. Death by drowning; what must it be in such a place?

At last the hands ceased to move. Was the battle over?

No. Not yet.

Into that darkness, from somewhere far above, stole a very feeble ray of light. What was it? Whence its origin? There were no other stations. The museum was far away. And yet here was light. One look, and the Shadow redoubled his efforts.

He had understood. This light was a ray of hope. Nor was hope entirely vain. A fresh avenue lay above him. When a new building is to be erected in the city and the excavation is going forward, a narrow chute is sunk to the tunnel. Down this chute the excess earth is run into cars and is thus carried away without cluttering up the streets.

One of these chutes lay just above the Gray Shadow and his burden. Could he but drag the unconscious form into the chute they would be safe for the moment.

To tell of the struggles of this lone figure there in the night; how he tried five times to drag the body to safety, only to fail; how at last he succeeded in bringing his burden into the chute; how he struggled up and up; how the slippery clay more than once defeated his aim and threatened ultimate catastrophe; and how at last just as dawn was breaking, he emerged, an unrecognizable figure, dragging one quite as unrecognizable, would require many pages of print.

It is enough that he did emerge triumphant; that he did find water in a pool and bathed the boy’s face as best he could; that he felt the pulse quicken, saw the eyes open; noted the approach of workmen to their day of toil, and then slunk once more into the shadows where he appeared to belong.