The Arrow of Fire

  CHAPTER XVII THE SERGEANT'S STORY

  When Johnny returned to the shack that night his strange guest was stillasleep. A third cot had been set up in the room. Understanding this,Johnny crept between the fresh, clean-feeling sheets, and was soonsleeping 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 cuppedin hands, staring at the floor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  A short time later as he and the one-time great detective drank hot blackcoffee in silence, the door opened and Herman McCarthey entered. Johnnyunderstood 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 brushesaway a cobweb. "Romeri. Yes, I remember the case. And you, HermanMcCarthey. Ah yes, Herman McCarthey. There were no stool pigeons in thatcase."

  "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 dayoff. Going out to my place at Mayfair. It's quiet out there and mightyfine. To-morrow's Sunday. Supposing I take Mills out there for theweek-end. You come out Sunday and stay all night. Then we'll come back totown 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 hiswill; 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. Theother followed.

  Johnny went with them to the sidewalk. There he stood and watched themboard a west bound car. After that he turned about and walkedthoughtfully back to the room. In his mind questions turned themselvesover and over. "When is a man an empty shell? When is he a hopelessderelict?"

  He thought of Herman McCarthey, alone out there at his country place withthat terribly silent man, and was tempted to regret the steps he hadtaken.

  He ended by drinking a second cup of coffee, then falling asleep in hischair.

  * * * * * * * *

  Next day Johnny went out to Herman McCarthey's place. He had no troublefinding the house. The town was small, only a tiny village, but filledwith many stately trees.

  He wondered a little as he walked up the gravel path. How was his man,his derelict? Would anything worth while come of this affair?

  He found Newton Mills in the same condition as when he left the shack. Hetalked little, always of trivial matters. He ate almost nothing. At timesa haunting desire was written on his face.

  "Been like that all the time," Herman whispered to Johnny. "Can't tellhow he'll come out. Seen many like him. Can't help it when you're a cop.They're like a lamp that's been burning a long time and gone dim. Some,if you give them a fresh supply of oil, flare up, then burn steadilyagain. Some don't. Last spark is gone. How about him? Who knows? Only Godknows. We must do our best."

  They spent the day in quiet rambles about the village and long periods ofloafing on the porch.

  Newton Mills retired early. That left Herman and Johnny to amusethemselves; not that the strange derelict had furnished them muchamusement. In his bed at least he was no longer a burden.

  The two, the seasoned detective and the boy, chose to sit the longevening through on the broad screened porch.

  The still peace of the place seemed strange to the boy whose ears hadbecome accustomed to the rattle of elevated trains, the shouts ofnewsboys and the miscellaneous din of a city's streets.

  "It's so quiet," he said, looking away through the motionless leaves ofstately trees, across the darkened lawn to the spot where the moon wasrising.

  "Yes," said Herman McCarthey, "it is quiet. Sometimes I like to feel thatthe peace of God hovers over the spot. Anyway, it's the only place I'llever live.

  "You know, of course, that you're supposed to live in Chicago if you'reon the force," he went on. "But the Chief fixed that for me. It's only arule; not a law.

  "The Chief and I," and his tone became reminiscent, "were on the forcetogether when we were young. We were in one fight which the Chief won'tforget. Nor I, either.

  "There was a tough gang down by the river. A shooting had been reported.We got there on the double-quick; too quick perhaps. We met 'em coming upthe bank, all armed. They didn't wait for words. Just started inshooting. They got me in the shoulder first round. But I stood up to 'emand let 'em have it back. So did the Chief. One man went down.

  "Of a sudden the bullet I had in me made me dizzy. I spun round and wentdown.

  "The Chief stood up to 'em. A dozen rounds were fired before my headcleared. When it did, I propped my eyes open just in time to see one ofthem bending over the Chief, taking deadly aim. The Chief was down with abullet in his back. That shot never was fired."

  "You--you got him." It was Johnny who spoke.

  "You said it, son."

  "And that," said Herman McCarthey, "is why the Chief lets me live where Iplease.

  "But that," he went on after a moment, "is not why I live here. Of courseI've always loved the quiet peace of the open country. You need it afterthe day's rush and noise and all the squalid fuss you endure as a policeofficer. Somehow I have a notion that if a lot more of those citycave-dwellers lived out in places like this we wouldn't have so many torun down and put in jail. But who knows?

  "That's not the whole reason either." He leaned forward in his chair. "Ilive here because it's the place where I spent my honeymoon."

  "You--your--" Johnny stared at him through the darkness.

  "Yes." Herman McCarthey's tone was deep. "I was married once.

  "No. She didn't die. Just went away. They do that sometimes. She's livingyet, and happy, I hope. Successful too, and prosperous. Buys dresses fora big store in New York, swell dresses they say. Goes to Paris every yearand all that. Ten thousand a year, maybe more.

  "You see," his tone became very thoughtful, "she married the wrong man.That happens too. I was only a cop, a plain ordinary policeman. Perhapsshe married my uniform. Who knows?

  "I brought her out here. She wasn't happy. 'Too still,' she said.

  "So we took a flat in the city. But she wanted what I couldn't give, kindof a society life."

  For a time, he stared away to the west where the first stars wereappearing. Then he spoke again.

  "I bought this place on payments. When we moved to the city I couldn'tvery well keep up the payments, so I let it all go; or thought I had.

  "But when she'd left me and gone to New York I sort of felt like I'd liketo come out and see the old place--the place where I'd spent myhoneymoon.

  "And what do you think? The man I'd boug
ht the place from had saved itfor me all that time! All I had to do was begin paying again, and it wasmine.

  "It's things like that that make me like quiet country places. Men dosuch things out here. Perhaps they do in the city, too. But somehow Ifeel that a man is a bit nearer God when he sees the dew on the grass,the red in the sunset, and the gold in the moon."

  Again he was silent for a time.

  "All this," he went on then, "hasn't made me bitter. It's the duty andgrand privilege of most men to have a home and raise a family ofyoungsters. It's the duty of us all, especially of us officers of thelaw, to make it easy and safe for those boys and girls to grow up strong,clean, and pure. That's why an officer who doesn't do his whole duty isso much of a monster."