Chapter XVII: Johnny’s Jimmy

In the meantime Red Rodgers, the object of all this activity in a great city, sat at a small table in a cozy cabin on Isle Royale, hundreds of miles away, calmly sipping the broth from a delicious Mulligan stew (which, by the way, is made by cooking up everything you have in the way of 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 had emptied his bowl he sat back to nod drowsily.

“It’s good to be lazy and comfortable and to do nothing,” he murmured. It seemed to him now that he had somehow been drugged. Never before had he felt so little desire for action. “I wish those crooks would leave us alone,” 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 what was this man saying?

“The listening world will be interested to know that while the football star, officially known as the Red Rover—”

“Red—Red Rover.” The boy sat up, quite awake now. “Why, that is the radio! They’re talking about me. And here I am listening in.”

“Yes,” the scout chuckled, “that’s Chicago. Haven’t listened to that station before, or I’d have known. Bet they’re broadcasting reports every hour.”

“About me?”

“Why not? You’re a star.”

“A star to-day; to-morrow a steel mill worker. What does one star more or less matter?”

For all that, he sat up and listened with increasing interest as the speaker told of all that was being done to apprehend the kidnapers and return 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? He might discover who the kidnapers were. But would he trace them to Isle Royale? Ah, no. That was expecting too much!

He felt a tightening at his throat as he thought of his team mates and the coach, the Grand Old Man, doing their best to stave off defeat. “It’s not that I’m so important as an individual,” he told himself humbly, “but I’m part of the piece, like one stone in an arch. Without me the team must fail.

“Why am I here?” he cried out suddenly, springing to his feet. “How can I get 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 was answered here and answered there. Then such a chorus as never before was heard on sea or land rose above the sound of rushing water and sighing pines.

“Wolves,” Ed commented briefly. “Bush wolves. Hundreds of ’em on the island. They’re all singing to-night. There will be a storm. Listen again.

“There is a little sea to-night. To-morrow it will be raging. The distance from Rock of Ages on this island to the mainland is seventeen miles. 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 of raging 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 should see a little of Rock Harbor while you’re here. That’s what they say in summer.” He laughed. “Why not now?”

Red was to see something of Rock Harbor indeed. Pictures of this unusual little corner of the world were to hang for many a day on the walls of his memory. Some of these he would cherish, and some he would be glad to forget.

* * * * * * * *

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 sent up in a tin pail. They were imbibing freely as they talked.

“The police drag-net caught never a thing,” Drew announced. “They’ve vanished, all that gang belonging to the fiery-eyed fellow, the big man and his son, the three just alike, and the two others. And that,” he sighed, “leaves us just where we were. We have the gun that was fired at you, Tom, but we haven’t the man. The Red Rover is still a captive. And why? Will you answer me that? Have the authorities over at Old Midway received demands for ransom money?”

“Not a scratch.” Tom’s brow wrinkled. “Had them on the wire half an hour ago. 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, or something of the sort. Not a word from her either, though that’s not our problem. 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 knife convicting a man?”

“Stabbing case?”

“No, whittling, just plain whittling.”

“Why, yes. Let me see. There was one. A fellow shot a former partner of his. Trapper he was, I think. He built a blind of green willow branches. Cut the branches with his pocket knife. Shot the fellow behind this blind. The sheriff found the blind. Then he found the knife in the fellow’s cabin. He sent the knife and willow stubs to the Crime Laboratory. They studied the knife blade and the cuttings. That was the knife all right; irregularities in the cuttings were the same as on the knife blade. The trouble was, they couldn’t prove that the knife had not been planted in the fellow’s cabin, so the thing fell through.”

“Sounds interesting.” Drew drained his cup. “Wish you’d take a look at these through your microscope.” He pushed a handful of shavings toward his partner. “The Galloping Ghost left them, you remember.

“And here is the collection of pocket knives. You’ll be able to tell whether one of these did the whittling.

“You see,” he explained, “some fellow connected with the kidnaping sat and whittled while he waited for the Red Rover to fall asleep.

“Strange how often men’s habits convict them,” he philosophized. “If you’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 short these are. If he were a meditative person, quite at ease, he would take long, smooth strokes.”

“I’ll look these over.” Tom swept the shavings into an envelope. “There might be something in it. Can’t afford to neglect the least clue. If it interests the old G.G. it should have our attention. By the way, what’s your 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 our side. That’s enough for the present. I—

“Be careful!” He turned suddenly to Johnny. “Don’t bend that. It might be important.”

“What is it?” The boy held up a thin bit of sheet aluminum that had been pressed into a curious form.

“That,” Tom explained, “is an impression taken from the bottom of a sleeping car window. When the Red Rover was kidnaped the window was jimmied. The end of the bar made a deep impression in the wood. It was an old bar with several nicks in it. If I ever come upon it I could identify it by this impression.”

“This,” said Johnny, “is getting too deep for me. Invisible footprints on sheets. Shavings from some whittler’s knife. Impressions in wood. These are 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 from a watery grave.”

Stepping to the corner he produced a paper-wrapped package and then revealed 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 get it?”

“Why, what do you mean? The bar?”

“I mean it’s the bar that pried that car window open. See! The impression fits exactly. I say! Where’d you get it?”

“Nothing to get excited about,” Johnny grumbled. “Some one stuck it in the back of Angelo’s speed boat. Young Angelo, you know, son of the flower shop man.”

“Back of the boy’s speed boat. Humph!” Slouching down in his chair, Tom fell into a brown study.

“I’ll dig into this whittling business,” he said, at last rousing himself. “There might be something in it. You never can tell.”