A THREE-CORNERED BATTLE

While Johnny and Hanada were being led away to the patrol box a young man came running up.  He was a reporter, out scouting for news.

“Who’s that?” he asked, as he caught a glimpse of Johnny’s face.

“Johnny Thompson, you nut!” growled the policeman.  “Didn’t you never view that map of his before?”

“Yes, but Johnny Thompson’s dead.”

“All right, have it your own way.”

“What’s the charge?”

“Conspiracy.  Now beat it.”

The youth started on a run for the nearest telephone.  He had hit upon a first page story.  A half-hour later every newsboy in the downtown district was shouting himself hoarse, and the words he shouted were these: 

“All about Johnny Thompson.  Johnny Thompson, featherweight champion.  Alive!  Arrested for conspiracy!  Extry!”

The theatre crowds were thronging the streets, and the newsies reaped a rich harvest.  Among those in the throng was Mazie Mortimer, Johnny Thompson’s one-time pal.  She had gone to the theatre alone.  When Johnny was in Chicago, she had gone with him, but now no one seemed to quite take his place.

As she hastened to the elevated station the shouts of the newsboys struck her ears.  At first she heard only those two electrifying words, “Johnny Thompson.”  Then she listened and heard it all.

Had she not been held up and hurried along by the throng, she would have fallen in a faint.  As it was her senses seemed to reel.  “Johnny Thompson!  Alive!  Arrested!  Conspiracy!” It could not be true.

Breaking away from the crowd, she snatched a paper from a boy, flung him a half-dollar, then hurried to the corner, where, beneath an arclight she read the astounding news.  Again it seemed that her senses would desert her.  With an effort she made her way to a restaurant where a cup of black coffee revived her.

For a time she sat in a daze, utterly oblivious of the figure she cut—­a well dressed, handsome young woman in opera cloak and silk gown, seated at the counter of a cheap restaurant.

Johnny Thompson alive, here in Chicago, arrested for conspiracy?  What did it mean?  Could it mean that Johnny had been a deserter, that he had become involved in the radical movement which, coming from Russia, seemed about to sweep the country off its feet?  She could not quite believe that, but—­

Suddenly a new thought sent her hurrying into the street.  Hailing a taxi, she ordered the chauffeur to drive around the block until she gave him further orders.  Her thoughts now were all shaped toward a definite end:  Johnny Thompson, her good pal, was not dead.  He was in Chicago and in trouble.  If it were within her power, she must find him and help him.

Studying the newspaper, she noted the point at which he had been arrested.  “Wells street bridge,” she read.  “That means the Madison Street police station.”