CHAPTER XXI

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.