“Prison,” the boy thought with a shudder. The money appeared to burn a hole in his pocket. “Why did I take it? I’ll get rid of it at once.”
The reporter appeared to read his mind. “Won’t do a bit of good to dispose of it now. Those men have witnesses to swear you took it, and others who will say under oath that they saw you with it later. That’s evidence enough.
“Mind you,” he went on smoothly, “I am not threatening you. Why should I? I am only a reporter who knows things. I am telling you what is safe. All you have to do is to drop this whole affair; forget it. Take the money. Go on a fishing trip. Have a good time; you’ll not be molested.”
“I don’t want the money!” Johnny protested indignantly. “I—”
“Don’t say it.” The reporter put a hand on his arm. “Think it over. Iron bars; work in a shoe factory run by the State, behind iron bars.”
“Well, I’ll be—” Johnny stared after him. What did it all mean, anyway? A whispering reporter with such a warning.
Just what Johnny thought of this whole affair after ten minutes of reflection may be judged by what he did.
Pulling his cap down over his eyes in a determined way he made for the street.
“Shoes,” he grumbled. “Always did want to know how to make a pair of shoes. Lots of people can write a book or paint a picture. How many of them could make a pair of shoes. And you can learn all that for practically nothing.” He chuckled in a mirthless sort of way.
“I’ll find that missing aviator,” he told himself. “And then, we’ll—then we’ll see.”
The young Air Mail pilot whom Johnny had, for the tenth time that day, decided to search out, had not been idle.
Two long hours he had crouched beside the wall of the museum waiting for the one who had robbed him of the precious, mysterious package. He waited in vain. At last he gave up hope.
With leaden feet and drooping spirits he left the park in search of a restaurant.
A hot breakfast revived his spirits. “I’ll go back and face the music,” he told himself with a grim set of his jaw. “What I did was, I judged, for the greatest good of all, and no man can do more than that.”
He climbed a stairway, boarded an elevated train and went rattling away toward the distant airport.
He settled back in his place for half an hour’s ride and allowed his thoughts to wander. They were long, long thoughts. He was the youngest air pilot in the mail service. He had worked hard to reach that goal. The money for his flying instruction had been saved bit by bit. When he had earned an air pilot’s license he still had a long way to go. Little by little, he had piled up hours of successful flight until he was considered eligible for the Air Mail service. Months as a substitute, with an occasional flight, had preceded his regular commission.