He came, quite unexpectedly, upon “The Ferret.” It was in a little underground restaurant where the walls were of imitation stone and all the dishes of a curious Dutch pattern.
So much absorbed was “The Ferret” in something a youth about Johnny’s age was saying that he did not notice Johnny at once. When at last he did see him he sprang to his feet with an exclamation.
191
“What a lucky meeting! Let me introduce my—” He broke off abruptly, appeared quite confused, then ended rather lamely, “Well—er—a friend who is very much one of us. He has, you might say, a burning desire to be of some service to his city.”
Johnny scarcely needed to be told that this youth was consumed by some great desire. He could read it in the two smouldering coals of fire that were his eyes. Indeed, as he recalled the meeting later and tried to summon a mental picture of this new-found friend, he could visualize only a pair of glowing eyes, that was all.
Johnny was invited to join them at their evening meal. What was said during that half hour Johnny does not recall. That it was unimportant is to be assumed. That which followed was important. The nameless youth invited him for a walk. And what a walk it turned out to be!
192
At a rapid stride the stranger led the way straight out of the business section of the city into a wilderness of apartment houses. Nor did he pause here. On and on they went. A mile of streets filled with children, of apartments where home lights were glowing. Here, through some windows they caught glimpses of little circles gathered around the evening meal, of happy groups about a piano, or some elderly couple seated reading beside a lamp.
A mile of this, two miles, three. Few words were spoken. “And this is what he calls a little walk!” Johnny all but groaned aloud.
Still there was no pause. Four miles, then five and six. Johnny was beginning to believe it was a practical joke, when suddenly the strange youth turned upon him.
“Johnny Thompson,” he said, with his eyes fairly glowing in the night, “have you seen those homes?”
“Yes, I—”
“How many were there?”
“Thousands.”
“How many honest people live in them?”
“Most people are honest.”
“That’s it!” The boy’s tone was deeply earnest. “Here is a city filled for the most part by honest folks. Yet it is ridden by crooked politicians and grafters; it is in the grip of the criminal element. This grip cannot, or at least has not been shaken.
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“Do you know what I believe, Johnny Thompson?” He gripped Johnny’s arm. “I believe that this world was made for good, honest, generous, clean-minded people to live in, and that when it has become impossible for such people to live without being poisoned by moonshine, robbed by grafters or shot by holdup men, it is time for some of those who are honest and good and clean to die that their city may be made right again.”
“So that was it,” thought Johnny. “A sermon.
“Mighty impressive one, at least. And I believe he is sincere.”
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CHAPTER XXI ONLY A VOICE
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CHAPTER XXIII THE FACE IN THE NIGHT
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