“Shall we?” Berley’s tone was almost wistful. “We’ll take a lunch and eat it on the rocks.”
“Might be worse,” Red admitted. “Rowing will at least keep me in trim for the great day. And now for some sleep!” He disappeared behind the narrow curtain that led to one of the cubby-hole bedrooms in Ed’s cabin.
“The great day,” he whispered to himself, as he slid beneath the covers. That day now seemed very, very far away. But quite unconsciously he was losing his feeling of long weariness. The spring of youth was flooding back through every nerve and fiber of his being. “If only I could get a whack at that line,” he thought dreamily. “If only I could!”
The person banging at Drew Lane’s door was none other than the person known as the Rat. Drew was surprised to see him. The Rat, like others of his kind, seldom appeared unless called. The object he unwrapped before the young detective’s astonished eyes was, he thought, worth a trip half way round the world. It was the shoe that had made the invisible footprint on the sleeping car sheet. Once Drew’s eyes fell upon it, he sat and stared. A full minute had passed into eternity before he could say:
“You know dat place beside de river? Down below de flower shop? Angelo Piccalo’s shop? Dat’s de place.”
Drew looked at Johnny. Johnny looked at Drew.
“Rat,” said Drew, “you’re a great old finder. Here’s a fiver. Now scram!”
For a long time the detective and his young friend sat staring at the shoe.
“Johnny,” said Drew at last, “they say you can’t keep birds from flying over your head, but you can prevent their building nests in your hair. Also, ‘Where there is much smoke there must be some fire.’ First there’s the jimmy bar, and now there’s this shoe. Looks as if we were beginning to see light. Do you get me?”
“I—I think I do,” replied Johnny, in anything but a cheerful voice.
Johnny was on his way early next morning. He crossed the bridge and was about to pass the flower shop without going in, when Angelo stepped out of the door.
“Gooda morning, meester Johnny! Dees ees one—a fine morning.”
Apparently a box had been opened beside the flower shop door. The box was gone, but some broken fragments of wood remained. Picking up one of these, Angelo began to whittle absent-mindedly. His actions so fascinated the boy that he found it hard to talk coherently. However, he forced himself into the task of talking about the weather, the river, speed boats and rare flowers. In the meantime he watched the keen blade of Angelo’s knife chipping out short, sharp shavings of wood.