CHAPTER XVII JOHNNY'S JIMMY
In the meantime Red Rodgers, the object of all this activity in a greatcity, sat at a small table in a cozy cabin on Isle Royale, hundreds ofmiles away, calmly sipping the broth from a delicious Mulligan stew(which, by the way, is made by cooking up everything you have in the wayof meat and vegetables, then adding much sliced bacon and many onions).
The stew was good. The cabin was warm. The hour was late. When Red hademptied his bowl he sat back to nod drowsily.
"It's good to be lazy and comfortable and to do nothing," he murmured. Itseemed to him now that he had somehow been drugged. Never before had hefelt so little desire for action. "I wish those crooks would leave usalone," he thought to himself. "I wish I could sleep for a week."
But what was this? A voice sounded in the room, a strange voice. And whatwas this man saying?
"The listening world will be interested to know that while the footballstar, officially known as the Red Rover--"
"Red--Red Rover." The boy sat up, quite awake now. "Why, that is theradio! They're talking about me. And here I am listening in."
"Yes," the scout chuckled, "that's Chicago. Haven't listened to thatstation before, or I'd have known. Bet they're broadcasting reports everyhour."
"About me?"
"Why not? You're a star."
"A star to-day; to-morrow a steel mill worker. What does one star more orless matter?"
For all that, he sat up and listened with increasing interest as thespeaker told of all that was being done to apprehend the kidnapers andreturn the Rover to his team.
"Good old Drew Lane," he murmured. "He'll get 'em. You'll see."
But after all--. His spirits drooped. After all, what could it matter? Hemight discover who the kidnapers were. But would he trace them to IsleRoyale? Ah, no. That was expecting too much!
He felt a tightening at his throat as he thought of his team mates andthe coach, the Grand Old Man, doing their best to stave off defeat. "It'snot that I'm so important as an individual," he told himself humbly, "butI'm part of the piece, like one stone in an arch. Without me the teammust fail.
"Why am I here?" he cried out suddenly, springing to his feet. "How can Iget away?"
"Perhaps you can't," the guide said quietly. "We'll do the best we can.
"Listen!" The guide blew out the lamp, then quietly opened the door.Bing, the dog, uttered a low growl. He was silenced by his master.
From somewhere away off in the dark came a weird, wild call. It wasanswered here and answered there. Then such a chorus as never before washeard on sea or land rose above the sound of rushing water and sighingpines.
"Wolves," Ed commented briefly. "Bush wolves. Hundreds of 'em on theisland. They're all singing to-night. There will be a storm. Listenagain.
"There is a little sea to-night. To-morrow it will be raging. Thedistance from Rock of Ages on this island to the mainland is seventeenmiles. Rock of Ages is forty miles from here. There are power boats here,but no gasoline. You'd have to row. You'd never make it."
"Our only chance is Passage Island," Berley Todd put in.
"Absolutely! But that is four miles from Blake's Point. Four miles ofraging black waters. And Lake Superior never gives up her dead. No. No,son. You'll be staying here a spell yet. And why not? Really you shouldsee a little of Rock Harbor while you're here. That's what they say insummer." He laughed. "Why not now?"
Red was to see something of Rock Harbor indeed. Pictures of this unusuallittle corner of the world were to hang for many a day on the walls ofhis memory. Some of these he would cherish, and some he would be glad toforget.
* * * * * * * *
Next morning, in the distant city, there was a council of war. Drew Lane,Tom Howe and Johnny Thompson sat around Drew's desk. Coffee had been sentup in a tin pail. They were imbibing freely as they talked.
"The police drag-net caught never a thing," Drew announced. "They'vevanished, all that gang belonging to the fiery-eyed fellow, the big manand his son, the three just alike, and the two others. And that," hesighed, "leaves us just where we were. We have the gun that was fired atyou, Tom, but we haven't the man. The Red Rover is still a captive. Andwhy? Will you answer me that? Have the authorities over at Old Midwayreceived demands for ransom money?"
"Not a scratch." Tom's brow wrinkled. "Had them on the wire half an hourago. There's another case up just now, too; just as strange in a way.Little lady named Berley Todd; old man Todd's daughter, steel magnate, orsomething of the sort. Not a word from her either, though that's not ourproblem. We're out to find the Red Rover."
"Yes, and that promises to be enough to keep us awake nights.
"Tom," Drew's tone changed, "did you ever hear of a pocket knifeconvicting a man?"
"Stabbing case?"
"No, whittling, just plain whittling."
"Why, yes. Let me see. There was one. A fellow shot a former partner ofhis. Trapper he was, I think. He built a blind of green willow branches.Cut the branches with his pocket knife. Shot the fellow behind thisblind. The sheriff found the blind. Then he found the knife in thefellow's cabin. He sent the knife and willow stubs to the CrimeLaboratory. They studied the knife blade and the cuttings. That was theknife all right; irregularities in the cuttings were the same as on theknife blade. The trouble was, they couldn't prove that the knife had notbeen planted in the fellow's cabin, so the thing fell through."
"Sounds interesting." Drew drained his cup. "Wish you'd take a look atthese through your microscope." He pushed a handful of shavings towardhis partner. "The Galloping Ghost left them, you remember.
"And here is the collection of pocket knives. You'll be able to tellwhether one of these did the whittling.
"You see," he explained, "some fellow connected with the kidnaping satand whittled while he waited for the Red Rover to fall asleep.
"Strange how often men's habits convict them," he philosophized. "Ifyou're a whittler you'll have your knife out on every occasion,whittling, just whittling.
"This man," he took up a shaving, "must be a nervous sort. See how shortthese are. If he were a meditative person, quite at ease, he would takelong, smooth strokes."
"I'll look these over." Tom swept the shavings into an envelope. "Theremight be something in it. Can't afford to neglect the least clue. If itinterests the old G.G. it should have our attention. By the way, what'syour idea about this Galloping Ghost? Who is he? And what's he after?"
"You answer." Drew grinned. "All I know is that he seems to be on ourside. That's enough for the present. I--
"Be careful!" He turned suddenly to Johnny. "Don't bend that. It might beimportant."
"What is it?" The boy held up a thin bit of sheet aluminum that had beenpressed into a curious form.
"That," Tom explained, "is an impression taken from the bottom of asleeping car window. When the Red Rover was kidnaped the window wasjimmied. The end of the bar made a deep impression in the wood. It was anold bar with several nicks in it. If I ever come upon it I could identifyit by this impression."
"This," said Johnny, "is getting too deep for me. Invisible footprints onsheets. Shavings from some whittler's knife. Impressions in wood. Theseare to bring a man to justice. Pipe dreaming, I call it.
"By the way!" he exclaimed. "I have a jimmy bar all my own. Saved it froma watery grave."
Stepping to the corner he produced a paper-wrapped package and thenrevealed the bar he had taken from the speed boat of Angelo Piccalo,Junior.
"Let's have a look!" Tom Howe's eyes fairly bulged.
"Say, boy!" he cried ten seconds later. "That's the bar! Where'd you getit?"
"Why, what do you mean? The bar?"
"I mean it's the bar that pried that car window open. See! The impressionfits exactly. I say! Where'd you get it?"
"Nothing to get excited about," Johnny grumbled. "Some one stuck it inthe back of Angelo's speed boat. Young Angelo, you know, son of theflower sho
p man."
"Back of the boy's speed boat. Humph!" Slouching down in his chair, Tomfell into a brown study.
"I'll dig into this whittling business," he said, at last rousinghimself. "There might be something in it. You never can tell."