David O'Hara

“ Never had Jimmie been happier than at this moment. To be shaking the hand of a young man who had been born rich, who might at that moment have been lolling on some beach surrounded by a bevy of beauties, or coasting along in some palatial yacht, but who had chosen the long years of labor and practice that makes a man a professional pitcher, that was a joy indeed. ”

“ Jimmie’s chance to show Scottie what his Gnome would do came sooner than he had expected. With his father’s aid he had secured a summer job with the Press as copy boy. The results had been surprising.
To many the job of copy boy would not prove exciting. To jump when someone in the large editorial room shouts, “Boy!”, to go racing away to Miss Peter’s desk on the third floor or Mr. Bill’s on the seventh and to keep this up for long hours is tiring to say the least. Yet, for Jimmie, every office, the composing room, the roaring press-room held a charm all its own. ”

“ Tom’s face beamed. “Done in wax. The exact reproduction of two hundred famous ears, many of them of crooks, living and dead. A clever little hunch-back lady, a marvelous sculptress, does them for me.
“What I want you to do,” he said, “is to pick one out that exactly matches this ear of the Silent Terror.”
“That should be easy,” said Jimmie. “There are so many.”
“Take your time.” Smiling in a strange way the young detective sat down behind his telescope.
For a full five minutes Jimmie studied those ears. From time to time Tom heard him murmur, “Nope, not quite. Not at all, in fact. Nor this. ”

“ At that same hour John Nightingale and Mary Dare, the red-headed lady reporter, sat at a table in a basement eatshop drinking coffee and discussing Jimmie.
“What sort of a boy is this Jimmie Drury?” Mary asked.
“Oh, just another boy,” John drawled.
“John!” Mary’s voice rose, “you know that’s not true. No boy is just another boy. What sort of boy is he?” ”

“ Jimmie agreed reluctantly.
“Sometimes I think,” Tom droned, squinting through his telescope, “that it’s no sort of a thing for any decent fellow to be in this detective business.
“And yet,” he paused for a space of seconds, “if some of us didn’t go in for it where’d everyone else be? Always in fear of their lives. It’s war! That’s what it is.” His voice rose. “War against crime. Not so many years ago there was a terrible war in Europe. Millions of fine fellows were killed. ”

“ He didn’t do any dancing about, not a useless motion, but every now and again you’d see him have the ball, watch it shoot up and in, then hear the crowd roar. You can’t make much out of a kid like that,” he ended with a drawl.
“No,” Mary agreed. “But in the end he’ll make a lot out of himself. You’ll see. I love the way he looks you straight in the eyes. So many boys look all over the lot while you’re looking at them, as if they had something to hide. Nothing like that with Jimmie.”
“That’s right,” John agreed. “I look for him to go places and do things. ”

“ Scottie McFadden, a veteran photographer of the Press, was discovered to be entrenched in his favorite dark room.
“Can’t come out for another quarter hour,” his voice sounded out through the walls. “These fight pictures must be out for the early edition. What have you got?”
“One of Jimmie’s candid camera shots,” John Nightingale winked at his friends as he shouted through the dark room walls.
“Candid camera!” came roaring out from the dark room, “You may as well all go home. Nothing big will ever come from a picture the size of a postage stamp.” ”

“ Jimmie’s first hard-earned dollar had gone for a camera of a sort. For years after that all he could earn, beg or borrow went for cameras and equipment. His proudest hour came when, on his seventeenth birthday, his wealthy uncle Bob had presented him with a truly wonderful miniature camera.
“It’s a Gnome,” he confided to Scottie. “Takes twenty-four pictures in about as many seconds. Got a wide-angle lens that will almost take pictures in the dark. And fast! Say! There’s not a camera made that’s faster. It—it’s a real dwarf.” ”

“ Those spider-like creatures moving over the sidewalk seeming all arms and legs were turned once more by this magic glass into men and women. Those large black bugs crawling along the street became autos.
“What I just said is more truth than fancy,” said Tom. “Fact is, in these days when I have no more pressing matters to hold my attention I train my telescope on a certain garage.”
“Garage? Why?” Jimmie asked in surprise.
“In that garage,” said Tom, his voice took on a note of mystery, “are stored two trucks. Under the hoods of these trucks are hidden unusually powerful motors. ”

“ Jimmie chuckled. “He likes to kid me about my candid camera.”
“Yes, but he’s beginning to believe in it,” Tom took the enlargement from the table. “You stick by Scottie. He’ll give you anything you want. Providing what you want is right and for the good of all.
“Look at that picture,” he said a few seconds later. “Peach of an ear. Not another like it in the world.”
They were looking at an enlargement of a picture of the Silent Terror. Perhaps the only one in existence, it was the one taken by Jimmie on the eventful night before. ”

“ Jimmie’s lips were parted for a sharp warning when something quite unusual happened. The little man spun half around, arose in the air like an airplane taking off, then shot away into the fog to land solidly on the pavement a full fifteen feet from his starting point.
A gruff voice said, “There! That will teach you to keep your hands out of other people’s pockets!” At that the big man bent over to pick up the bill-fold that had been snatched from his pocket and which, with the blow, had been knocked from the small man’s hand. ”

“ Tom smiled. “I can see every car or truck that leaves, just as if it were day. We’ll get them if they make a move.”
“And the Bubble Man?” Jimmie suggested.
“Yes,” Tom’s brow wrinkled. “There’s the Bubble Man. I don’t mind admitting he’s got me worried. You see, we’re used to automatics, even machine guns, but a fellow like that—it—it’s sort of like hunting rattle-snakes for years, then coming on one of those puffing adders. You don’t know how to go after him. ”

“ What kind of a job?” asked Tom.
“Neat. Professional, all right. Cut up the safe with oxyacetylene torch. Easy as opening a can of peas.”
“H’m,” said Tom as he entered the place. “Not much of a safe. Easy money, I’d say. But we’ll try to make ’em pay. We usually do, in the end, don’t we, Jerry?”
“I’ll say you do, Tom,” Jerry grinned. “Who’s the Boy Scout?” He eyed Jimmie suspiciously.
“He’s from the Press,” Tom explained. “Special friend of mine. Keen with his candid camera. Only person that’s ever photographed the Silent Terror.” ”

“ Scottie had wanted to see Jimmie succeed.
“An ear!” Jimmie murmured.
“An ear!” Mary repeated.
“Must be a profile,” said John hopefully.
“Nope. See for yourselves,” Scottie held out the glass. “Only an ear.”
“More than that,” said Tom Howe after a look. “There’s a shoulder and the back of the neck. There’s as much character shown in a man’s neck as in the shape of his nose.
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“And that ear!” he exclaimed after a closer look. “It’s priceless, that picture. There’s not another ear in the world like it. Jimmie, allow me to congratulate you.” He gripped the boy’s hand tightly. ”

“ Watching them go by gets to haunt you if you look too long.
“But ears,” he went back to his original subject, “people don’t fuss much with their ears. Men do not try to disguise their ears as they do their eyes and noses. That’s why I’ve taken up the study of ears. In a crowd of ten thousand I could spot the Silent Terror’s ear. Soon I shall be carrying a reproduction of it in my pocket.”
“Have one made for me,” Jimmie’s tone was eager.
“I will,” said Tom. “Be sure you study it well.” ”

“ In these men born to create were at work. The click-click of a typewriter produced a story that would be read by eager millions. The dark-room brought out pictures almost as though by magic. In the art room men created pictures that made men laugh and forget their troubles. ”

“ Tom said soberly, “he has done a real service to his city. We’ve got to get that man and get him quick. At present, in some way quite unknown to us, he is putting people to sleep at a distance and robbing them on the streets. But criminals are never satisfied. In time he will double the dose, whatever it is, and his victims will never come to life. It is always that way with crime.”
“But how about the picture?” he demanded, turning eagerly to Jimmie.
“It—it’s not developed yet,” Jimmie stammered.
“Come on. We’re in luck,” the reporter exclaimed. “Scottie just went back to the darkroom. ”

“ Tom put a hand on his shoulder. “Many a catch has been thwarted by a newspaper story released too soon. When we get that man you’ll have first chance at the story, you have my word for it.”
“Thanks, old man.” John slouched down over his desk to take up once more the task of answering phone calls about a saloon brawl, a pick-pocket in the park, and some young drunks who had rammed their car into a viaduct.
“Such,” he sighed, “is a reporter’s life.”
As for Jimmie, he was vastly relieved. ”

“ Time for sport flashes. He snapped on the radio to catch the commentator in the midst of his talk:
“Tomorrow,” came from the radio, “will witness an event of unusual interest in the world of sport. If you have wondered what the city’s richest people look like, the De Metzes, the Marmons, the Morton Armours, and all the rest, be sure to come to the ball game. They will all be there, right down in the box seats. Why? Because the young society baseball pitcher, J. Ogden Durant, is to start for the Bear-cats.”
“Durant!” Jimmie exclaimed to the empty room. ”

“ He scarcely heard the further comments of the announcer as he went on:
“Perhaps this is the first time in the history of baseball that a millionaire’s son has risen to the rank of a big-leaguer. It surely is the first time one has stood in the pitcher’s box. Give him a hand, ladies and gentlemen. Give him a hand. He deserves it.”
All this time Jimmie sat with his eyes closed, seeing himself in the past, as a rather small boy. A golf course joined The Glen on the west. ”

“ Tom was emphatic. “It’s a halfside view. Look at that ear! There’s only one of its kind in the world. See for yourself.”
After placing a flat box containing a wax reproduction of an ear on the table, he held a magnifying glass before the picture.
One look was enough to convince them. “It is! It is!” They were agreed.
“But what—” Jimmie could not go on. Instead he sat staring in astonishment.
“What is he doing in such company?” John asked. He had recognized in one of the others the notorious Sharpe.
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“The others,” said Tom, “are Stumps Sharpe and Tungsten Tom. ”

“ All except one. He was a cross-fox. You see,” Jimmie leaned forward, “silver foxes are sort of freaks, like a white calf in a herd of red cattle.”
“What could you do about that?” John asked.
“You have to try and try again. First you get a cross fox, half red and half silver. You keep the ones that are most silver and raise more and more foxes. That’s what my big friend, Harm Stark, did. And in the end, when he and his brothers were nearly broke, they began getting real silver foxes. And now they raise thousands every year. ”

“ Mary sprang back clutching her eyes as if blinded. Jimmie stood rigid as a statue. He was thinking, “I am about to die.” Then came in a flash, “I shall not die. Lightning kills instantly.”
“John! Mary! Are you hurt,” he called.
“I—I can’t see,” Mary answered.
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“Of course not. I dropped my flashlight. It’s pitch dark,” Jimmie laughed in spite of himself.
There came a minor flash of lightning.
“There!” Mary exclaimed. “I’m all right.”
But by the light of that flash Jimmie had seen something. John was lying on the floor.
“John!” he called. “Are—are you hurt?” ”

“ John laughed. “Cowards. Crooks are all like that. Like rats or snakes they’ll only fight when they’re cornered.
“Come!” Once more he was on the move. “There may be a few more sparklers in there. No matter how they came there, whether they were stolen or are part of the old Judge’s fortune long lost to the family, we’ll gather them in.”
Jimmie’s feelings were a tumult as he once again entered the old house. A score of questions crowded his busy brain. What of those diamonds? ”

“ Choose—” his voice trailed off.
“I played baseball some,” he went on after a time. “Still can swing a fair to middling racket in tennis. Learned to beat a typewriter and did a stretch on the college paper. That’s how I got to be the way I am now, I guess. I——”
He broke off short to listen intently. “Thought I heard a car,” he murmured. “Must have been mistaken.”
“Did you like it?” Jimmie asked after a pause.
“Like what?” John groped for a thought. “Oh, college? Sure. It was a grand life. It’s not so much what you learn in classrooms that counts. It’s rubbing minds with bright men. ”

“ I’ll develop the candid camera and telescopic lens ideas as far as I can, then I’ll make them give me a job. And I’ll work, not just sit and wait for checks from home.”
“Son,” there was a warm light in his father’s eye. “I like to hear you say that. The greatest discovery any boy ever made is the fact that every tub must stand on its own bottom, every fellow pull his own oar, make his own way in the world.
“But, son,” his tone was deeply serious, “no one ever succeeded in a newspaper office without hard work and long hours. It’s the workingest place in the world.”
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“I know,” said Jimmie. ”