  “Who are you?” Johnny asked as he sat staring at this strange little man. “Ben Zook’s my name. What might be yours?” “Johnny Thompson.” “What was you doin’ on my island, Johnny?” “Looking for a man.” “Find him?” “I—I’m not sure. I was trying to find out whether I had found him or not when he hit me with a brick.” “It probably was him,” said Ben thoughtfully. For a moment the two of them sat staring away at the dark waters of the lake. Then Ben spoke: “Well, if your gyroscope’s workin’ sufficient well to let you navigate without too much of a list to starboard, we might set sail. I’ve got some coffee, and I guess there’s still a fire. It will do you good.” “Yes,” said Johnny, struggling to his feet and standing there unsteadily, “yes, I think it would. Lead on, friend. Sort of map out the route for me, will you? I’m a stranger in these parts.” “Thought you might be,” chuckled Ben. “Don’t have many visitors, I don’t, an’ most of ’em’s what you’d call of an undesirable class—bums that’s been run off the parks, mostly. Me—I’m no bum. I earn my living. I feed the chickens.” Johnny thought that a rather strange occupation in a city of three million. Since he was too busy watching his steps over the irregular surface of made land to give attention to other things, he let the thing stand as it was for the present. “Probably just a way of saying something else, I guess; hasn’t a thing to do with real poultry,” was his mental comment. In a surprisingly short time Johnny found himself nearing that side of the island next to the lake, and a moment later was led to a spot where red coals glowed in a sort of out-of-doors fireplace fashioned from broken bits of brick. “Here’s my house,” said Ben Zook, a touch of pride in his tone. “It’s not everyone that lives in a brick house these days.” At first Johnny thought he referred to the rude fireplace and was prepared to laugh; but, as he turned about he caught sight of a dark, cavern-like hole in the side of a great mound of clay. Even as he looked his newly found friend lighted a candle. The mellow glow of this tiny lighting plant revealed three walls of brick and mortar and a roof of wood. The whole place was not over ten feet square, and the ceiling was barely above his head. There were no windows and no door, but the end next to the fire stood open and that served the place of both. “What do you think of it?” asked Ben Zook. “I think,” said Johnny heartily, “that had Robinson Crusoe come upon a home like this on his island he would have wept for joy.” “Why, so he would, Johnny, so he would!” exclaimed Ben, more than pleased by this compliment to his extraordinary abode. A half hour later, Johnny’s slight wounds having been quite skilfully dressed by his surprising host and his spirits revived by a strong cup of black coffee, the two sat staring out at the lake. “Do men come out here often?” Johnny asked. “Not so often. It ain’t safe crossing on the breakwater. I’ve got a sort of flat bottomed boat I paddle across with every morning when I go over to feed the chickens.” There it was again. “The—the chickens?” Johnny stammered. “Yes. I got a regular job. Don’t pay very big, but it keeps me, and besides, when a chicken gets sick and looks like he’d die, they give him to me. I bring ’em out here and dope ’em up. Then if they get all right I take ’em back and sell ’em. I’ve got five chickens, a guinea hen and a goose right now.” “Where are these chickens you feed?” Johnny asked, more perplexed than ever. “Commission house. South Water Street. Come in by car loads and in crates and have to be fed, you know. I feed ’em an’ water ’em. That’s my job. An’ this island, it’s my chicken ranch. Roam all over it, my poultry does, in the daytime. At night I shut ’em up. I’d like a better place, where there was grass an’ shade, but seems like a fellow can’t save enough for that. This here island, it don’t cost me nothin’. They just let me stay here, the park folks do. An’ the house, it didn’t cost nothin’ neither, only the price of a bag of lime. Sand came from the lake; bricks I picked up from rubbish piles. Pretty neat, ’eh?” He proudly surveyed his three walls. “Pretty neat,” Johnny agreed. “I like it best with the end open to the fire. It’s more healthy. But if folks are goin’ to come out here at night, ’taint goin’ to be safe. I’ll haf to build a door. Not folks like you, but that other fellow’s kind. Seems like I’ve seen that man out here before.” “Big man—with a stoop and a limp?” Johnny asked. “That was him.” “And a hooked nose?” “Didn’t see his face.” “What was he doing?” “Standin’ with his back to the island and his face toward the city, an’ far’s I could tell he was standin’ there a shakin’ his big fists at the city an’ a swearin’ fit to kill.” “That was just what he would do if he is the man I think him to be,” said Johnny, quietly. “Would he now? What’d anybody do a crazy thing like that for?” “You tell me,” said Johnny. “There are some like that.” “Crooks and cranks,” said Ben. “Why didn’t you hit him first?” “I did, but he had a hard head.” “Hit him with a brick?” “No, my fist.” “Never do that to a crook, Johnny. They wouldn’t do that to you. Put ’em to sleep with the best thing you can grab, then argue with ’em after they wake up. Talk about honor among thieves; there ain’t none. They’re a low lived lot, too lazy to work. Half of them have got heads like kids and the other half are full of hop. A dirty bunch of low lifed cowards who take knives and guns to rob people. “An’ look at the stuff they write about ’em in them there paper books and magazines. You’d think they was high class gentlemen down on their luck and doin’ an honest turn by robbin’ some one just so as to get back on their feet again, wouldn’t you? Or mebby goin’ in for it as a sort of sporting proposition. Livin’ dangerously, they’d call it. Danger! It’s their victim that gets the danger! Honor! Romance! Living dangerously! Bah! Hit ’em first, that’s my motto!” “And that,” said Johnny, rubbing his bruised head, “is going to be my motto in the future.” When the next opportunity presented itself Johnny did not forget this resolve. He followed it through, and with the most astonishing results. “Ben,” said Johnny a moment later, “I want to keep in touch with you. That fellow may come back.” “That’s what I been thinkin’ an’ I don’t like it.” “Of course you wouldn’t. And if he did you’d want him taken care of.” “Certainly would, Johnny, unless I could get close enough without him seein’ me to take care of him with a brick.” “Don’t do anything rash,” Johnny continued. “If he shows up, let me know. I’ve got a room facing the water front. I’ll bet you can see that window from the place where you work. There’s a door at the back of the building. You’ll know the place; the first building to the right after you cross Wells Street bridge. That back door isn’t locked. In a dark corner behind the door is a small box with a slot in it. If that man comes back you just hop right over there and slip an orange wrapper in that box. There’s plenty of them in South Water Street. That will be a message to me, and it won’t tell a thing to anyone else, even if they rob the box.” “All right, Johnny, I’ll do that.” For a time they sat there staring at the lake. Then slowly their heads drooped, and with arms crossed like their primitive ancestors, the ape-men, they sat on this strange island so near and yet so far from a great city, sat by the fire asleep, but ever ready at the slightest sound to seize a club or a stone in defense of their lives and Ben Zook’s crude home. |
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