The Arrow of Fire

by Roy J. Snell

  CHAPTER XI SWORN TO STAND BY

  Johnny's return to the radio studio that night caused quite a sensation.He arrived somewhat ahead of time. The girl who presided over theswitchboard, one floor lower than the studio proper, was still at herpost.

  "Gee!" She stared at him, wide-eyed. "They nearly killed you, didn'tthey?"

  "Tried it, I guess," Johnny admitted.

  "And still you came back?"

  "Lightning never strikes twice in the same place," Johnny laughed.

  "It does. I've seen it. Very same tree. Going to strike twice here, too.Something tells me that. You'll see. They'll bomb this place. When thoseSicilians start a thing they never quit 'til they get what they want.That's what my dad says. And he knows. I'm quitting; to-morrow night's mylast. Dad says, 'Let the police do their own work.' And that's what Isay, too."

  "If the officers of the law were not backed up by the honest people of agreat city like this," Johnny replied thoughtfully, "nobody's life wouldbe safe for a moment. In such times as these every man must do his duty."

  "Not for me, sonny, not for me! I know where there's a safe place towork, and me for it!"

  Johnny climbed the stairs with heavy steps, only to learn that hisoperator of the night before had also quit.

  "Quit us cold," was the way Bill Heyworth, the sturdy night manager andchief announcer, put it. Bill was thirty, or past. He was a broadshouldered Scotchman with a stubborn jaw. "Said he didn't want to be shotat. Well," he philosophized, "guess nobody does. But somebody has tocarry on here. This thing is not going to stop because the gangs want itstopped. In time, of course, the city will have a station of its own.That will let us out. But until then the squad calls will go through ifwe have to call upon the State Militia to protect us. This city, officerand civilian, has set itself for a cleaning up. And a cleaning it shallbe!

  "What's that?" he asked, as Johnny drew forth his six foot yew bow.

  "A plaything, you might say," Johnny smiled. "Then again you might say ithas its practical side. I'll demonstrate."

  Picking up a bundle of magazines, he set them on end atop a table againstthe wall. The outermost magazine had an oval in the center of itscover-jacket the size of a silver dollar.

  Johnny drew back to the end of the room, then nocked an arrow and droveit through the very center of that spot.

  Bill Heyworth whistled. He whistled again when Johnny showed him thatfour of the thick magazines had been pierced by the arrow's steel point.

  "Of course," said Johnny, laughing low, "I don't expect ever to use ithere. But I'll feel safer if you allow me to turn that chair about soI'll be facing the entrance to this studio and have this 'Silent Murder,'as Drew Lane calls it, close at hand. Do I have your permission?"

  "With all my heart, son. With all my heart. And you'll stick?"

  "Till they drag me out by the feet!"

  "Two of us!" The Scotchman put out a hand. Johnny gripped it tight, thenwent to his post.

  * * * * * * * *

  The days that followed were quiet ones for Johnny. There needs must bemany quiet days in every life. These days, calm as a May morning, placidas a mill pond, give us strength and fortitude for those stormy periodsthat from time to time break upon us.

  But these were not uninteresting days. Far from it. Hours spent in afresh environment, among new and interesting people, are seldom dull.

  There are few more interesting places than the studio of a great radiostation. Besides the never ending stream of famous ones, great authors,moving-picture actors, statesmen, musicians of high rank, opera singers,and many more, there are the regulars, those who come night after nightwith their carefully prepared programs planned to entertain and amuse atired world.

  That he might cultivate the society of those more skilled, more famousthan he, Johnny arrived night after night an hour or two ahead of hisschedule.

  He came, in time, to think of himself as one of them. And he gloried inthis rich environment.

  Bill Heyworth, the night manager, was himself worthy of long study. Adoughty Scotchman, sturdy as an oak, dependable as an observatory clock,brave as any who ever wore kilts, a three year veteran of the great WorldWar; yet withal, bubbling over with good humor, he was a fit pattern forany boy.

  Quite different, yet not less interesting, were the comedy pair, one veryslim, one stout, who came in every evening at ten o'clock to put on theadventures of a German street band.

  Not all the skilled musicians were transients. The Anthony Trio, piano,violin and cello, might have graced the program on many a notableoccasion, yet here they were, night after night, sending out over theether their skillful renditions of the best that other times haveproduced in the realm of music.

  Dorothy Anthony, the violinist, a short, vivacious girl with a wellrounded figure and dancing blue eyes, seemed no older than Johnnyhimself. Many a talk, gay and serious, they had, for Dorothy took heroutdoor adventures at second hand. She listened and exclaimed overJohnny's experiences in strange lands, and insisted more than once uponhis demonstrating his skill by shooting at the magazines with his bow andarrow.

  As for his bow, it stood so long in the corner that it seemed certainthat it would dry out and become too brittle for real service inemergency.

  Though Johnny enjoyed the company of the great and the near-great, hefound most satisfaction in his association with a certain humbleindividual who occupied a small space before the switchboard at the footof the stairs. And that person was none other than Rosy Ramacciotti.Since Johnny had been told that Rosy was in need of work, he had hastenedto secure this position for her.

  He had thought at first, because of her father's most unhappy death, she,too, might be afraid. When he suggested this to her he was astonished bythe snapping of her black eyes as she exclaimed:

  "Me afraid? No! I am Italian. Did you not know that? We Italians, we aremany things. Afraid? Never!"

  So Rosy presided at the switchboard. Each night, during the hour thatpreceded Rosy's departure and Johnny's taking up of his duties, theyenjoyed a chat about many, many things.

  Nor did Drew Lane object; for, as he one night explained to Johnny, hisrelations with the Ramacciottis were based on little more than acharitable desire to be of service to someone.

  "You have heard, I suppose," he said to Johnny one evening, "that thereis a society that looks after the families of policemen who lose theirlives in the service. That is a splendid enterprise.

  "There are also many societies in existence that take care of theinterests of criminals and their families. That too, I suppose, is allright.

  "But where is the society that cares for the women and children madewidows and orphans by the bullets of gangsters, burglars, and robbers?Never heard of one, did you?

  "Well, some of us fellows of the Force decided to do what we could forthese.

  "I learned of the Ramacciotti family. They had inherited a small candystore and a large debt. They were paying sixty dollars a month flat rent,and going bankrupt rapidly.

  "I helped them sell out the store. Then I found these two shacks. Used tobe fishing shacks, I suppose, twenty-five years ago. Tried to find theowner. Couldn't. So we moved in anyway. I pay for my room and morningcoffee. The furniture is Mrs. Ramacciotti's.

  "I found her a small kitchen and dining room down street, where sheserves rare Italian dishes, ravioli a la Tuscany and the like. They aredoing very well, and are happy.

  "Happy. That's it," he mused. "Everyone in the world has a right to behappy. It's our duty, yours and mine, to be happy, and to do the best wecan to help others to their share of happiness."

  "So that was how Drew came to live in such a strange place, and to beinterested in these unusual people." Johnny thought about this for a longtime after Drew had gone. His appreciation of the character of this youngdetective grew apace as he mused. His interest in Rosy and her motheralso increased.