CHAPTER XXVIII

TWO ANKLES AND A SCREAM

Joyce Mills waited long in her uncomfortable place beneath the long davenport in the secret chamber of Brother Krosky. Some very open-mouthed and big-eyed students from a near-by university were eager to hear a certain brother direct from Russia tell his philosophy of life, and he was quite as eager to talk. So the slim, muscular, nervous girl beneath the davenport eased her cramped muscles and steadied her jumpy nerves as best she could and patiently awaited events.

At last Brother Krosky closed the front door behind the last student, and accompanied by four ponderous gentlemen and two equally ponderous women, retired to the back room.

Joyce fairly held her breath as they entered. There was, however, little need for that. Brother Krosky produced a dark bottle which decidedly did not contain weak tea. There was a clinking of glasses, and after that a babble of voices.

“That black bottle loosed their tongues,” the girl thought with an inward groan. “Now it will be another hour before they settle down to business. By that time I’ll be so like a mummy that I shan’t be able to move.”

Move? A thought struck her squarely. How was she to get out of this place, anyway? How did she know the brothers wouldn’t sleep in this very room?

Had there been some little black imp about he would doubtless have whispered in her ear:

“You’d be surprised!”

There was no imp about. But a creature much more real was. Suddenly she felt something touch her ankle. With great difficulty she held perfectly still and did not utter a sound.

“What was that?” She shuddered.

Her nerves steadied again. “Old imagination at work again,” she told herself. “Too much tea.”

To get her mind away from unpleasant speculations, she fixed her thoughts on her surroundings. Before her, easily within reach, were two pairs of fat ankles. The women of the party had chosen the davenport as their seat.

From the way the shadows flickered, she guessed that candles were being used to give the place “atmosphere.” From the position of these shadows on the floor, she guessed that the candles rested on a small table directly before the worthy ladies.

Little did she dream how these facts were to serve her later.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Brother Krosky beat on the table with his fist. “We have gathered here to discuss matters of grave importance.” A hush fell over the room. He rose heavily, crossed the floor unsteadily and closed and locked the outer door.

Joyce felt her heart sink. The trap was growing tighter.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began again, “on the twentieth of last month there left Moscow a very precious package. The Third International expected great things from this priceless package.”

A murmur, half assent, half admiration, followed.

“It arrived in New York. It left New York two days later. Sent by a trusted brother, it was insured for one thousand dollars.”

Once more a murmur.

Joyce was listening breathlessly. Her nerves were also at work. They reported that some moving object, like the priceless package, was making progress. Starting at her ankle, it had passed up to her knee, then to her thigh. It had made a successful passage over the rocky ridge that was her spinal column.

She had guessed what this creature was. All her life, from the time of faintest recollection, she had feared a mouse. Gangsters, thieves, hoodlums of all sorts, held no terror for her. But a mouse! The blood was frozen in her veins. She was a mummy indeed. But not quite.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the sonorous voice of Brother Krosky continued, “that package began its journey to this city.”

Ah, at last, here was the story! But no. At this instant there came an audible gasp.

The ladies stared. The gentlemen stared. Krosky stared. Whence had come that sound!

Joyce could have told them. It had come from her lips. The mouse had leaped from her shoulder to her ear. That she could not stand.

She knew what the result would be: a search. A search! And then? There must be no search.

She was a person of action. Those tempting fat ankles were still before her. In front of them were the table and the candles.

Timing herself exactly, she seized an ankle in each hand and screamed.

The result was more than she had expected. The ladies screamed and plunged headlong. The table went over. The davenport went over. The candles went out. And in the darkness that followed, Joyce unlocked the door and vanished.

Ten minutes later found her quietly strolling down a path in the park.

“It is astonishing how still a place like this can be at night,” she told herself.

“But what rotten luck I’ve had!” she exclaimed a moment later. “All that fuss and I really found out nothing. I wonder what earthly use a mouse could be put to anyway? If I knew of any I’d buy half a dozen white ones and put them to work, just for revenge.”

* * * * * * * *

If you have read much in the ancient writings you will recall the story of the wilderness prophet who lived on locusts and wild honey. You will remember, too, that when he was asked who he was, he replied: “I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness.”

A queen heard of that voice and became very angry because of its utterances. Which all goes to prove that even in those days, a voice had influence and power. How much more so to-day, when a voice on the air, sounding over thousands of miles, spans oceans, continents, and speaks to millions!

The Voice, with which Johnny had become so familiar, continued its nightly messages to the people of the great city. And with each passing night the anger of some, the approval of many, grew. It became no infrequent occurrence for people to overhear on street car, in shop, factory, or store, the words: “Did you hear him? Did you hear the Voice last night? Isn’t he grand? Doesn’t he speak the truth?”

Such was the enthusiasm of many. Many there were, too, who attempted to discover his identity; but all in vain.

Some there were, sober minded ones of long experience, who shook their heads sadly and murmured low:

“He speaks truth. But it is rash. The world has never loved its prophets. It stoned them in olden times. What less can be expected to-day?”

But all unheeding, the Voice went steadily, fearlessly on.