  Jimmie lived with his father and mother in an old-fashioned house in The Glen, a suburban village near the city. John Nightingale, too, had a place in The Glen. And what a place it was! To the few who knew about it—and they were very few indeed—it was known as “John’s hideout.” It was well named. The Glen was an old village. One of the first settlers had been a Judge Stark, a man with grand and costly ideas. He had been fond of large rooms, fine horses, and trees. With plenty of money at hand, he had walled in ten rolling acres of land, built a huge castle-like house in the center and broad stables at the back, laid winding drives and paths all over it and planted it thick with all manner of trees. The Judge had now been dead for many years. His two sons, preferring city penthouses to a tree-grown estate, had abandoned the great house. It had been closed for years and was showing signs of decay. The Judge’s trees, planted with such care, had continued to thrive. In one corner of the estate, some distance from the house, was a thick clump of pines. So closely planted were they and so interlaced were their heavy branches that the space beneath them seemed dark even at noonday. In the center of this cluster of pines was John’s hideout. Having made the acquaintance of one of the Judge’s sons, John had sought and received permission to erect a portable structure there. The hideout consisted of two small rooms made entirely of 2×2 timbers and three-ply boards. Even the roof was of ply-board, heavily painted. It resembled nothing quite so much as two huge packing boxes set up side by side. When an autumn rain came pelting down on the roof it was as if a hundred imps were beating upon it with drumsticks. Since Jimmie Drury was a normal boy with the blood of Robin Hood, Long John Silver and all the rest coursing through his veins, it was only natural that he should become very fond of John’s hideout. Nor did his father object. John Nightingale was not a thrifty person, to be sure. He borrowed money three days before pay-day and his clothes were more often frayed than otherwise. But he was honest, clean, and friendly, the sort of fellow who makes a good and generous big brother. And to Jimmie’s father this was quite enough. John was young, not yet twenty-five, but he had been places and seen things. There was nothing Jimmie liked quite so much as sitting by John’s glowing fire sipping a cup of his famous bitter-sweet chocolate, and listening to his low drawl as he told of crossing the ocean on a cattle ship or shipping as an able-bodied seaman earning his way peeling potatoes and washing dishes “down to Rio” or “across to Shanghai.” “Folks are queer,” John would drawl. “Queer and just alike, too. If you hang about the water-front in Liverpool, Rio, Boston, or Shanghai, and if you don’t watch out you’ll be robbed. But if you go back to some quiet little village near any of these harbors you’ll find kindly, hard-working, gentle folk who are glad to help you and wish to do you no harm.” “But tell me about these places in Chicago?” Jimmie would insist. “What places?” John would ask, as if he did not know. “The places where you eat with a feeling that there’s a knife at your back,” Jimmie would hunch forward expectantly in his chair. “Oh, those places!” John would grin. “You’re safe enough there if you’re in the know. They spot you soon enough. They read your stuff in the papers. If a reporter doesn’t go around exposing them, these places you know, on the near west side, where the light-fingered fellows, the hold-up men, and a bank robber or two hang out he’s as safe as in a church. I think they really enjoy our company. Some of them,” John would chuckle, “are poets and novelists gone wrong. They have the desire to create or destroy. It’s easier to destroy than create so that’s what they do. “But, of course,” he would hasten to add, “you wouldn’t know what I mean by all that. And I’m not going to take you there, so let’s talk about that place on the near north side where you get real Swedish cooking, big rings of cold meat in a sort of candied jelly, minced chicken, strange, rich desserts and real coffee. All spread out on a long, bare wooden table where you can help yourself.” “Um,” said Jimmie. “We’ll go there the very next time,” was John’s instant decision. John had written a small book on “Places to eat.” Some day he would be a famous novelist, Jimmie was sure of that. He never grew tired of listening to John as, in slow, melodious rhythm, he read aloud some short piece of fiction that he had just finished writing. For the most part John’s stories found their way to the waste basket, but every now and again his name was featured on the cover of a well-known magazine. This, of course, filled Jimmie, his ardent young admirer, with delight. It was in this very hideout on the evening of that day on which he had gone to view with Tom Howe the remains of a blown safe that Jimmie told John of his great discovery in the fog. It had been his idea in the first place to secure a short news story with a picture telling how a giant from the north woods had knocked a pick-pocket into the middle of the street with his bare fist. As his acquaintance with this big, rough-spoken man had grown, his ideas had grown with it. Now, as John sat with a steaming cup of chocolate before him he said: “It’s a feature story. That’s what it is!” “For the big Saturday edition,” John smiled expectantly. “Yes, or perhaps even a magazine article.” “All ready. Shoot! And here’s how!” said John. They clicked their cups and drank, after which Jimmie told his story. He told how he and the man from the north had met in the fog, how the pick-pocket had gone spinning into the street and how he, Jimmie, had asked the stranger for a story. “When he showed me that check for a half million bucks the one that pick-pocket nearly got, I wouldn’t believe it was real,” said Jimmie. “Don’t blame you,” John drawled. “But it was good! Real turkey!” Jimmie exclaimed. “He took me to the First National. Such a bank as that is! He didn’t just go to a teller and ask for a half million. He went to a department that deals only with raisers, dealers and manufacturers of furs. There he said, ‘Hello, Joe,’ to a man at a desk. Then he sat down at the desk, and showed the check. Joe whistled. ‘Good business,’ was all he said. “‘Sure,’ my big friend grinned. Then he said, ‘I want so much cash, a draft on this bank, one on that one, so much on deposit.’ Just like that.” “Just like that,” John chuckled. “I’d like to try it just once.” “But it was all real,” Jimmie protested. “He’s the silver fox king.” “That’s a large order,” said John. “He told me about it,” Jimmie went on enthusiastically. “You don’t get to be the silver fox king all at once. There was a time when only wild silver fox skins were sold. Then someone caught a pair of silver foxes alive. “He and his brother bought them, paid a lot of money for them. And when a family of little foxes arrived what do you think?” he asked. “Can’t guess,” said John. “They were all red foxes, worth about $10.00 apiece. 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. He just sold their prime skins for a half million. He’s promised to show them to me. He wants us to come to dinner with him at the Morrison. He’ll give you the whole story. Won’t that be grand!” “It sure will,” John beamed. “But where do you come in?” “I get in on the dinner,” Jimmie grinned broadly. “A half million in silver fox skins,” John mused. “What a haul for some big-time crook! “Jimmie!” he exclaimed, “have another cup of chocolate.” |
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