The Arrow of Fire by Roy J. Snell

Author:Roy J. Snell
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781634215770
Publisher: Duke Classics

Chapter XVII - The Sergeant's Story

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When Johnny returned to the shack that night his strange guest was still asleep. A third cot had been set up in the room. Understanding this, Johnny crept between the fresh, clean-feeling sheets, and was soon sleeping soundly.

When he awoke in the morning Drew was gone. His white-haired guest, Newton Mills, the man he had found, was seated on his bunk, chin cupped in hands, staring at the floor.

Johnny lay in his bunk watching him for a full quarter of an hour. In all that time he did not move so much as a finger.

This man fascinated Johnny. Does this seem strange? Who has not dreamed of coming upon a derelict at sea; of seeing her masts broken, bridge and gunwale gone, decks awash, yet carrying on, the wreck of a one-time magnificent craft? Could such a sight fail to bring to the lips an awe-inspired cry? How much more the wreck of a great man?

But was this a true derelict? This was the question that pressed itself upon Johnny's eager young mind. Many a drifting hulk, having been found sound of beam and keel, has been towed ashore to be refitted and sail the seas once more. So, too, it is with men. Thus Johnny's thoughts rambled on.

But what of this strange, prematurely gray man? What thoughts filled his mind at this hour? Or did he think?

Rousing himself, Johnny stepped from his bed, donned shirt, trousers and slippers to glide from the room and knock at that other door. Into Rosy's ready ear he whispered:

"Coffee for two. Stout! Black and strong!"

A short time later as he and the one-time great detective drank hot black coffee in silence, the door opened and Herman McCarthey entered. Johnny understood in an instant. Drew had sent him.

"Hello, Mills!" the sergeant exclaimed heartily. "Remember me, don't you? We worked together on the Romeri kidnapping case. That was, let me see, twelve years ago."

"Romeri." The man passed a hand before his face, as one will who brushes away a cobweb. "Romeri. Yes, I remember the case. And you, Herman McCarthey. Ah yes, Herman McCarthey. There were no stool pigeons in that case."

"No," said Herman, "there were none."

Conversation lagged. Herman sat down to drink a cup of coffee. He sighed, got up, walked across the floor, and sat down again.

"Tell you what," he said at last, looking at Johnny. "To-day's my day off. Going out to my place at Mayfair. It's quiet out there and mighty fine. To-morrow's Sunday. Supposing I take Mills out there for the week-end. You come out Sunday and stay all night. Then we'll come back to town in my car, the three of us. What do you say, Mills?"

The white-haired man rose with the air of one who has surrendered his will; like a prisoner who receives orders from a guard.

Herman McCarthey read the meaning of that act, and frowned. He did not, however, say, "Well, let's not go." He said nothing, but led the way. The other followed.

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