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 Another Random Document on
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his hands wide. “Come on now! You can do it, Tom! Right over and
make it good!”
But the ball didn’t go right over. Instead it curved widely and the
batsman pulled his bat back before he had completed the swing.
“Two balls!” said the umpire.
“Two-and-two, Tom! That’s the stuff, old man! You’ve got him
worried now!” called Sam, while from the other members of the
team came cheerful shouts of encouragement. “That’s the stuff,
Tom! He can’t hit you!” “One more just like it, Tom! Let him hit!”
“Give him a good one, Tom; we’re right here, old man!”
And then, with a change of pace that caught the batsman
napping, Tom sped one over the outer edge of the plate and the
swinging bat was too late, and Amesville roared and clapped as the
disgruntled batsman turned away.
“One gone!” cried Sam, holding up a finger. “Here’s the next man,
fellows!”
A high one failed to prove the strike that Tom had meant it to be
and he followed it with an out-shoot that was not offered at and that
also went as a ball. The coachers redoubled their noise then.
“You’ve got him in a hole! He’s afraid of you, Sandy! Wait ’em out!
Everybody walks now!”
But Tom came back with a slow ball that the batsman struck at
too soon and fouled into the stand. Again Tom made the same
offering and again the batter was fooled. “Two-and-two, Tom!” said
Sam, pawing the dust between his knees before he laid three fingers
against his glove. “Only one more now! Cut loose, old man! Show
’em what you have!”
But the signal didn’t call for any miracles, merely for an in-shoot,
and third baseman crept in an inch or two and poised on his toes.
And then away travelled the ball, the bat swung harmlessly, Sam put
up a big mitt, and Mr. George shouted, “He’s out!”
 Mr. Hall’s sigh of relief was audible the length of the bench in spite
of the deafening plaudits of the crowd beyond, amongst whom none
clapped his hands more vigourously than a late arrival, who had just
squeezed himself into a seat in the front row, and who now, in order
to give vent to his satisfaction, had let his cane slip away from
between his knees and had dropped the grey gloves he carried.
Then while the runners on bases, seeing their opportunity fade
away, shouted and leaped and scuttled back and forth, daring a
throw, the Lynton centre fielder came up, anxious-eyed under a
show of assurance. And Tom pitched, a slow ball that seemed of two
minds about ever reaching the plate. And the batsman, eager,
intense, leaned forward, swung desperately, and the sound of bat
and ball meeting rang out. Cries—commands—warnings! First
baseman speeding up, Sam whipping off his mask, Tom, with
upraised hand, walking toward the plate, head back!
“Tom! Tom!” shouted first baseman, slowing down.
“Take it!” gasped Sam, dodging aside.
High up against the blue of the sky the ball floated, a brown
speck, and then, momentarily growing larger, down it rushed. From
the enemy came conflicting shouts of “Catcher’s ball!” “First
baseman’s got it!” “Drop it! Drop it!” “Can’t get it, Pollock, can’t get
it!” And then, standing astride the plate, the batsman grudgingly
backing away, Tom poised himself, hands waiting. A step to the left
at the last moment and there followed the comforting thud of ball
against glove and the crisp voice of Mr. George, “Foul! He’s out!”
The audience shouted loudly, applaudingly, relieving their
suspense. The men on bases strode away to their places, picking up
their gloves and showing disappointment in every action. The
cheering died away and the Blues went to bat. One run was needed
to tie, but that one run looked very far away. Smith, the only one of
the men left on bases who had appeared to accept the result
philosophically—it was doubtless all in the day’s work to him—now
pulled his glove on again, swept up the ball from the dirt and faced
the batsman. Comparative silence reigned as the Lynton catcher
crouched and laid fingers against mitt. Smith nodded imperceptibly
and started his wind-up. And at that moment a polite inquiry came
from the edge of the grandstand:
“Why did Shreveport let you go, Nick?”
There was a slight falter as the ball shot away, and a quick glance
toward the stand as the umpire announced, “One ball!” A murmur of
amusement arose from the audience. Again came the wind-up and
again came the voice, clear and distinct across the diamond:
“Hard luck, Nick! Back to the bush, eh?”
Off went the ball and again the umpire disapproved, while the
pitcher, squaring himself toward the stand, searched the faces there
with curious gaze. He was smiling, but the smile didn’t look genuine.
He failed to find the speaker, for, although many faces were turned
toward a lower corner of the stand, Smith didn’t think to connect the
remarks with the smartly-dressed, gentlemanly-looking man of thirty
or so, who sat nonchalantly grasping a cane and a pair of grey
gloves between his knees. The stand was laughing and exchanging
inquiries. Further away the occupants were on foot, trying to get a
glimpse of the speaker. “The chap down there in the derby, I think.”
“No, the little man with the grey coat; smoking a pipe; see him?”
“What did he say, anyhow?” “I couldn’t hear, but whatever it was
that pitcher didn’t like it.” “Glad of it! He hasn’t any business playing
ball with a lot of boys.”
Smith pitched again, and once more, although there had been no
disturbing comment, he failed to put the ball over for a strike.
Scurrying to their places, the Amesville coachers whooped and
shouted. “Good eye, George! Wait for your base!” “You’ve got him
now! Here’s where we start, fellows! Wow!”
Smith rubbed his hand in the dirt, settled the ball between his
fingers and stepped forward.
“Strike—one!” called Mr. George. Lynton applauded.
 Smith got the return and walked back toward his box, and as he
went his gaze again sought the stand. Those who saw it laughed.
The man with the grey gloves watched imperturbably. Smith got the
signal, poised with upraised foot.
“What do you get for to-day, Nick?”
Away went the ball, bounded against the plate and rolled to the
net. The batsman raced to first and Amesville, players and friends,
laughed and shouted gleefully. Angrily Smith slapped the ball into his
glove as it came back, turned, and threw to first. The baseman, not
expecting the throw, tried for it and failed, and as the ball shot past
his finger-tips and rolled to the seats the runner dashed for second.
He had all the time in the world to make the bag and reached it
standing up. Smith, still scowling, got his signals, while from all sides
came the howls and shrieks of the Amesville players. He was fair
game now, it seemed, and in the stand they were kicking their feet
and whistling and shouting across at him. Whether he was really
being paid to pitch for Lynton none knew, but all were willing to
believe it.
The catcher walked down and conferred a moment and Smith
nodded grudgingly and went back to the mound. But Smith was
annoyed and off his game for once. Two balls followed in succession.
Then came a foul. After that a third ball. Amesville jeered and
redoubled her noise. Smith, trying his best to regain command of
the ball, took much time between deliveries now, wound up slowly,
and sped the ball away with care. But his time had come, for there
was a smart crack, a streak of grey across the diamond, and the
runner on second was digging for third, while down the first-base
line raced the batter. Well out of the reach of shortstop or second
baseman shot the ball, head-high, as clean and hard a drive to deep
centre as one would want to see. Centre fielder reached it as it took
its first bound, set himself, and sped the ball to second baseman and
second baseman turned and pegged it to the plate. But the Blues
had scored the tying run before the ball reached the catcher, and,
although that youth threw well and quickly to second, the runner
had taken advantage of the throw-in and was sitting comfortably, if
breathlessly, on the bag!
How Amesville cheered and clapped and pounded the boards with
excited feet! And what a scurrying and jostling there was about the
bench as Tom, conferring with Mr. Talbot, chose a hitter to go to bat
for Gordon Smith. It was Pete Farrar who was at last selected. Pete,
although a pitcher, was a pretty good hitter in the pinches, and it
was Pete who was now to prove the wisdom of his selection. For
Pete landed on the second ball offered him and sent it arching into
the very right-hand corner of the field! And, although the ball was
caught after a run, it didn’t reach the infield again until the runner
from second was sliding to third!
One out, then, and a man on third base! And one run needed to
give the lead to Amesville! And the occupants of the stand on their
feet, shouting and stamping and begging a hit! It was Sam who
walked to the plate, Sam a little bit nervous and trying to make up
his mind whether to follow Mr. York’s advice and take a short swing
or follow the method he knew best. But he hadn’t had time to learn
Mr. York’s way yet, and when, after sending a ball, Pitcher Smith
sped one across the outer corner, knee-high, Sam’s effort went for
naught. Another ball followed, one that passed the end of Sam’s
nose and sent him “bucketting” away from the plate. And then there
was another that looked good and again Sam, with shortened bat,
tried his level best to connect with it and only popped a fly behind
the Lynton bench. With the score two-and-two, Sam let his bat slide
down until his hands were grasping the very end of it and then
swung it well behind his shoulder and waited. After all, every man to
his trade, he thought! Then Smith was stepping forward and the ball
was coming and Sam—well, Sam was revolving on one heel and the
ball was snugly nestled in the catcher’s mitt, and Sam was out!
Amesville howled with disappointment and, in the ardour of the
moment, jeered Sam as he walked back to the bench. Tom, passing
on his way to the plate, smiled reassuringly and murmured, “Hard
luck, Sam!” Sam thought so, too.
 On third the runner was dancing back and forth along the path to
the plate, and everyone was talking as Tom tapped the end of his
bat on the ground, rubbed his hands reflectively on his trouser legs,
and then faced the pitcher. Smith was recovering now from his brief
and disastrous slump, and Tom secretly had slight hopes of success.
But he looked confident enough and smiled as he said something to
the Lynton catcher and received a scowl in reply. The first delivery
whizzed past at lightning speed and Tom knew it was a strike before
the umpire opened his mouth. Then came a drop that he refused to
bite at, although it looked good until the last moment. Again he let
one go by, a high one that might have been good or bad, and
proved bad. From the bench came encouraging cries, “You’ve got
him in a hole, Tom!” “Stick to him!” “He’s got to pitch ’em!” “Here’s
the one, Tom! Baste it!”
Smith was holding the ball under his chin, watching the catcher’s
fingers. He shook his head. The catcher signalled again. Smith threw
back his arm, raised his foot, and——
“If you’re getting more than your railway fare, Nick, you’re
cheating ’em!”
Smith unwound and pitched, but his tormenter had settled the
fate of that ball! A foot over the frantically upstretched hand of the
catcher it flew, and Tom, having his wits about him, struck at it
wildly and raced to first, while in from third base, urged on by a
galloping, shrieking coach, came the runner with the longed-for
tally!
Pandemonium reigned! Mr. Hall pounded Mr. Talbot on the back
and Mr. Talbot slapped Mr. Hall on the knee, and the other occupants
of the bench danced and capered ecstatically! And while the catcher
was recovering the ball and the pitcher was guarding the plate, Tom
Pollock rounded first at full speed and sped away to second. And he
reached it long before the ball did, and then, getting to his feet and
slapping the dust from his clothes, he smiled sweetly at the scowling
baseman.
 But he never got further, for a foul arched softly into third
baseman’s glove and that nerve-racking eighth inning was at last
over, with the Blues leading insecurely by one run.
“If they can hold it they’re all right,” murmured Mr. Hall.
“They’ve got some good hitters coming up,” replied Mr. Talbot
doubtfully. “Still, if they get one across that will only tie it up again.
Tom had better pass that man Smith, I guess.”
Lynton came to bat determinedly. But Tom, encouraged by
success, pitched as craftily as he knew how and the first batsman
struck out without a threat. And it seemed that the next was to
follow the same way when Tom had two strikes and one ball on him.
But, although the second man went out ultimately at first, he spoiled
several good ones before he finally hit to shortstop.
“Last man!” called Sam as Smith went to the plate. In the stand
they were on their feet, a few trickling down the aisles to be ready
to start for home. The man with the grey gloves left his seat and,
unnoticed, strolled along toward the Blues’ bench.
Perhaps Sam made an error of judgment when, instead of passing
Smith, he tried to get him for the third out, for, in spite of Tom’s best
efforts, the Lynton pitcher found one to his liking and leaned against
it. Had he hit it fairly it would have tied the score then and there, I
think; but he didn’t, and the ball, arching toward first, came down
safely behind that bag and a few feet inside the foul line. What
might have been expected then happened. Smith, taking a daring
lead, stole on the second pitch and, although Sam stepped forward
swiftly and threw as straight as an arrow, slid to the bag in safety.
That caused Tom to falter for the first time that day and, almost
before anyone realised what was happening, the next batsman was
walking to first. Lynton, shouting and dancing, saw her hopes revive.
A pinch-hitter was sent in for the next man up. He was a tall,
ungainly youth and looked anything but dangerous. But looks are
sometimes deceitful. That awkward-appearing youth soon showed
himself a canny batsman, and the first thing Tom knew he was in
the hole with two balls against him and no strikes! And then, sensing
the psychological moment, Lynton called for a double steal as Tom
sped the next delivery to the plate. Off for third scudded Smith and
down to second flew the next runner. The ball sailed to the plate, as
nice a strike as you like, and——
“Hit it!” implored the Lynton coachers. “Hit it!”
But above their cries sounded a voice that reached Sam with
startling, galvanizing effort.
“From the ear, Sam! From the ear!”
 “From the ear, Sam! From the ear!”

And Sam, getting the ball in spite of the batsman’s desperate

swing, seized it from his mitt, jerked his arm back and, without a
move from his place, launched it to second.
In raced Smith from third and down at the middle base the runner
was sliding in a cloud of dust. And then it was all over. Down came
second baseman’s hand, the runner slid into it, and Mr. George,
slackening up as he trotted past, jerked a hand over his shoulder.
“He’s out!” he cried.
 CHAPTER XXIV
FIRE!

Mr. Hall and Mr. Talbot, on their feet, smiled at each other in
satisfaction as the throng surged over the field.
“Some game!” said the former.
“I should say so! Well, glad to have met you, Hall. And—er—by
the way, in regard to that Barry case. Seems to me we might—er
——”
“My idea exactly,” replied the other heartily. “I’ll very gladly advise
a settlement to my client. I’ll drop around in a day or two and we’ll
talk it over. Good-bye!”
Mr. Talbot followed the players to the dressing-room, worming his
way through a crowd of enthusiastic youths, who had gathered to
show their approval of the Blues, and Mr. Hall, seeking a way from
the field, was suddenly confronted by the gentleman who carried the
cane and the grey gloves. Mr. Hall’s face expressed surprise and
delight.
“Johnny!” he exclaimed. “Where’d you drop from?”
Mr. York chuckled as he shook hands. “Hello, old man,” he said.
“You look almost as flabbergasted as Sam Craig did when I yelled.”
“Was that you bellowing like a bull?” laughed Mr. Hall. “I might
have known it. You’re always right there with the advice, Johnny.”
“Well, it happened to be good advice this time. It won the game.”
“Oh, certainly,” scoffed the other. “Craig and the others had
nothing to do with it!”
 “Craig did what I told him to,” replied Mr. York untroubledly. “If he
hadn’t, he’d never have nailed that man at second and the score
would have been tied at this minute—unless the other chaps had
won. Come on and let’s get out of here.”
“When did you arrive?” asked Mr. Hall when they were on the
street.
“About an hour ago. Ran down to Columbus last night, got there
early this morning, and found I could catch a train over here and see
you for a few hours and still get back to Mount Placid to-morrow
morning. My train goes at nine-something, and I’ll have to change in
the middle of the night. I call that a real proof of love and affection,
John.”
“Yes, but you’re a silly chap if you think I’m going to let you go on
to-night.”
“Sorry, but I have to be home in the morning. Topsy gets back and
I must be there to meet her. Well, how are you?”
“Bully, thanks. I needn’t ask how you are; you look as strong as
an ox; besides, I got news of you from young Craig. By the way, that
was a nice letter you wrote to me about him.”
“By Jove, I didn’t, did I? Meant to, but quite forgot it. Have you
seen him?”
“Yes, he came around one morning and we had a chat. Nice boy.”
“Yes, he is. Deserving, too. I never saw a chap his age who looked
more like a real catcher, John. I want to do something for him; want
to get him into college.”
“Hm,” said Mr. Hall. “Can’t you afford it?”
Mr. York laughed ruefully. “Yes, but he won’t let me. At least, not
the easy way. I offered to get him a college position and he turned
me down; said it wouldn’t be honest.”
“Good for him! What’s your plan, then?”
 “Well—I haven’t any yet. Thought I’d consult you. That reminds
me that I invited him to meet us at your office after dinner.”
“My office? Why didn’t you have him come to the club?”
“Well, the office is on my way to the station, for one thing, and I
won’t have much time here. Thought you and I could have some
dinner together and a quiet smoke and then walk down to the office
and see Craig for a few minutes. All right?”
“Surely, but we must get there before eight or we’ll have to climb
nine flights of stairs. The elevators stop at eight.”
“I think I told him about eight. By the way, did you hear me
having fun with Nick Turner?”
“Who’s he?”
“Why, that fellow who pitched for Lynton.”
“Smith, you mean? So his name is Turner, eh? Was that you who
hurled insults at him from the stand?”
“Insults, nothing!” Mr. York chuckled. “I only asked him why he left
Shreveport and how much he was getting to-day and a few things
like that. Only asked for information, John.”
“Well, you broke up the game, you old schemer! Who is this
chap?”
“Nick Turner? Pitched two years ago for Shreveport. Never was
much good, though. Knew him the minute I saw him pitch. I dare
say those Lynton boys made up a ten-dollar purse to get him to
work for them to-day. They ought to be spanked. I was glad you
fellows here licked them without any outside assistance.”
“They talked about having me pitch for them,” replied Mr. Hall,
with a smile. “I believe I agreed to do it if necessary.”
“Glad you didn’t, old man. By the way, I telephoned out to the
Country Club when I didn’t find you at your office, and they said you
weren’t there. Just by accident I heard of the ball game from a
conductor on a trolley-car and said to myself, ‘I’ll bet a million the
old loafer’s out there!’ Didn’t find you in the stand, though, and
didn’t think of looking for you below; not until you and another chap
got to thumping each other like two kids; saw you then. Those kids
played a pretty good game of ball, didn’t they? And wasn’t that
fellow who pitched for Amesville the same one we saw last spring?”
“Yes, Tom Pollock. He’ll make his mark some day, I guess.”
“Sure to; he’s a good pitcher.”
“I didn’t mean as a pitcher,” replied the other. “I meant as a man.
I suppose, though, you can’t understand judging anyone except by
his ability to play baseball, you crazy fan!”
“I like that! Crazy fan, eh? What were you doing to-day? Why
weren’t you in your office attending to business? How do you expect
to get on in the world if you go to ball games and such puerile
affairs?”
“Oh, Saturday’s a half holiday here,” Mr. Hall laughed. “Here we
are. Did you leave your bag here?”
“Yes, the hall porter took charge of it. Show me a tub of cold
water, John. I’m two inches deep in train dust!”
It was a few minutes before eight when Sam, turning into Main
Street at the corner of the Adams Building, saw Mr. Hall and Mr. York
just entering the big doorway. He caught up with them at the
elevator and as they were whisked aloft past dark corridors he had
to listen to much praise.
“You played a regular air-tight game, Sam,” declared Mr. York.
“And that throw to second at the last was a marvel. What did you
think when you heard me yell?”
“There wasn’t time to think anything,” replied Sam. “If I’d stopped
to think I’d never have thrown that way, sir. You see, I haven’t much
chance to try it yet.”
“But you had tried it, hadn’t you?”
 “Not in a game, sir; just in practise the other day.”
“Well, you certainly pulled it off in grand style! And I want to tell
you that if you’d thrown your old way you’d never have caught him.
He had an awful lead from first and ran like a rabbit. This our floor?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Hall, “unless you and Craig want to stay there
and ride up and down and talk baseball.”
“This man, Sam,” warned Mr. York, “is an awful hypocrite. He
pretends he doesn’t care a thing about the game, but some time I’ll
tell you a few facts about him; like the time he dented in the
immaculate silk topper of a perfectly respectable old gentleman at
the White Sox park in Chicago.”
“Well, I bought him a new one,” laughed Mr. Hall, as he unlocked
his door. “Enter, gentlemen.”
“Seems to me,” said Mr. York, pausing to sniff suspiciously, “I smell
smoke. Don’t you?”
“Smoke? No, I don’t think so. Probably from the railroad. It comes
up here when the wind’s right. Smell anything, Craig?”
“Yes, sir, I believe there is a smoky smell.”
“Well, come on. This building’s fireproof, anyway.”
“It’s what?” demanded Mr. York as he allowed himself to be urged
through the door.
“Fireproof, or what they call fireproof.”
“It’s about as fireproof as a can of gasoline,” said the architect as
Mr. Hall closed the door and turned the lights on. “You’ve got nice
brick and stone walls, but your partitions are only plaster over
lathing and your floors are the best quality of ‘fat’ pine. If this thing
ever did catch on fire and get a nice start it would go like a bundle
of shavings. Where’s your fire escape?”
“Fire escape? Why, at the back, I think; down the corridor.”
 “It might be a good idea to find out,” returned the other drily.
“Well, Sam, how did the hike go?”
“Very well, sir. I found them at Norrence all right and we got back
to camp three days later.”
“And now you’re back at school, I suppose.”
“Not until Monday, sir. Will you have this chair, Mr. Hall?”
“No, no, sit still. I’m going to open these windows and get some
air in here. Wonderful how this warm weather keeps on. I suppose
it’s cool up where you are, Johnny.”
“Y-yes, but not freezing. Did Sam here tell you that he paid a short
visit to Greysides, John?”
“Yes, he told me about it. Must have been frightfully dull for him,
poor chap!”
“He didn’t say so, but maybe it was.”
“I—I had a fine time, sir,” said Sam earnestly. The others laughed.
“We had some fine old talks, anyway, didn’t we? That brings me to
what I wanted to say, Sam. About that college idea, you know. I
haven’t worked anything out yet, but—— Look here, John, I certainly
do smell smoke, I tell you!”
“Of course you do. I’ve just opened the windows. It comes from
the railroad yards.”
“It doesn’t smell like coal smoke,” Mr. York objected. “Still—let me
see, what was I talking about? Oh, about that college scheme, Sam.
Ever think you’d like my profession?”
Sam considered. Then he shook his head. “No, sir, I’ve never
thought about it,” he answered.
“No inclination toward architecture, eh?”
“I’ve never thought about it, Mr. York.”
“Ever build anything?”
 “I built a hen-house once,” replied Sam, with a smile. “I like to do
that sort of thing, but——”
“Where’d you get your plan?”
“Nowhere; I mean I just—just went ahead and put it together.”
“But you planned it in your head first, didn’t you?”
“I suppose I did,” Sam confessed. “You see, there was the
framework.”
“Did you do it all yourself? How big was it?”
“About twelve by eight. I did it all myself, usually after school or in
the morning. It—it wasn’t much.”
“Ever do any drawing?”
“I’ve tried to.”
“Like good pictures, handsome buildings, statuary—such things?”
“Yes, sir, very much.”
“Still you don’t think you’d care to create them, eh?”
“Indeed I would, Mr. York, but I don’t believe I ever could. I’d like
to build a real house some time, though. You wouldn’t have to know
so much to do that, would you?”
Mr. York laughed and Mr. Hall smiled sympathetically. “Why, yes,
Sam, in order to build a house you’ve got to know quite a bit. Look
here, why don’t you think it over and decide whether you’d like to be
an architect? If you would, you can start your college course with
that end in view; and in the summers there’s a place in our office
you can have. The wages wouldn’t be large, but you’d learn the
business and if you made good I guess we’d be glad to give you a
real job. You’d have to work hard, though, and study like the
dickens. What do you think about it?”
“I’d like it!” declared Sam decidedly. “If I really could learn enough
to—to be an architect——”
 “Pshaw,” interrupted Mr. Hall, “it’s no trick, Craig. All the fellows in
my class at college who couldn’t make a living at laying brick or
driving express wagons went in for architecture. All, that is, except
John York. He had so much money he didn’t have to make it, and
we persuaded him to be an architect because we thought he could
do as little harm in that profession as any.”
Sam smiled obligingly and Mr. York threatened his friend with a
paper-weight.
“You give it a good thinking over, Sam,” he continued. “Talk to
your folks about it. You don’t have to decide before you get to
college. And as to college, why, you’ll just have to make it somehow,
old man. We’ll keep our eyes open and see if we can’t find a
scheme. John and I will get our heads together”—Mr. York was
interrupted by a fit of coughing—“and work out something. Look
here, John, this place is worse than Pittsburg! Why, the room is full
of smoke. Close the windows if you don’t want me to choke to
death!”
Mr. Hall started to comply with the request, then apparently
changed his mind, and walked to the door that led to the corridor.
“It certainly is smoky,” he muttered, “and it can’t all come from the
railroad.” He opened the door and staggered back before the cloud
of dense and acrid smoke that billowed in. The others leaped to their
feet with exclamations of alarm. Mr. Hall slammed the door shut
again and faced them.
“Fire,” he announced in level tones. “The flames are coming up
the elevator well, Johnnie.”
“So much for your fireproof building,” replied Mr. York, seizing his
hat and stick and gloves from the desk. “Which way out, please?”
“I don’t know,” was the reply. “We’re cut off from the stairs and
the elevators aren’t running. Couldn’t use them if they were, I
guess.”
“But the fire escape, man! Where’s that?”
 “We’ll try it, but it looks bad, Johnnie. I wonder—Put your head
out, Craig, and see if there’s any sign of excitement below. No? Then
it hasn’t been seen.” Mr. Hall strode to the telephone and yanked the
receiver off. “Fire department,” he said. “Emergency!” There was a
moment’s wait. Mr. York opened the door again and once more the
clouds of smoke seethed into the room, whirling and eddying as they
met the air from the windows. He looked up and down the corridor,
returned, closing the door again, and shook his head as his gaze met
that of the man at the telephone.
“Hurry up, John,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t look pretty to me.”
“Hello! Hello! Fire department? The Adams Building’s on fire.
What? I’m John Hall. Yes. I’m in my office on the tenth floor.
Everything looks to be pretty hot underneath. We’re going to try to
make the fire escape. Good-bye.”
Mr. Hall dropped the receiver back to the hook, looked about the
office, took a step toward his safe, shrugged his shoulders, and
moved toward the door. “Come on, Johnnie,” he said quietly. “We’ll
have to make a run for it. Craig, keep close to us. If we can’t make it
we’ll have to come back here and wait for ladders. All ready? Slip out
and I’ll shut this door again. Wait! How about handkerchiefs over our
faces?”
“Right!” agreed Mr. York. “Got one, Sam? That’s the ticket! Now
then, hold your breath and keep together. Which way, John?”
“To the right, past the stairway. Come on!”
Sam never quite forgot that dash for safety. It was a horrible
nightmare while it lasted. Somewhere near the stairway a solitary
electric bulb had faintly illumined the gloom of the long corridor
when they had ascended, but there was no sign of it now. Instead,
from the shaft in which the two elevators were operated, a lurid
glow poured up, rising and falling as though somewhere in the
depths of the building a giant furnace was being stoked. With the
light of the flames ascended billows of dun-coloured smoke and
showers of sparks, and, listening as they crouched for their dash
past the well, they heard the growling roar of the fire, with now and
then the sudden crackling of the eager flames which, even as they
looked, sent a tiny tongue licking at the flooring. The fire escape was
at the rear of the building, down the length of the long corridor, and
to reach it they must win past that veritable crater of heat and
smoke. Thrice they tried it and thrice they were beaten back, their
eyes blinded, their lungs choked with the scorching fumes. And then,
endurance at an end, they staggered desperately back to the office,
suffered torments while Mr. Hall fumbled for the knob, and at last,
gasping and sobbing, sought relief at the open windows.
It was a full minute before anyone spoke. Then, drawing a deep
breath into his parched lungs, Mr. Hall said quietly, with a twisted
sort of smile, “Rather silly being roasted alive here, Johnny!”
“We sha’n’t be. They’ll have us out of here in a minute. There they
come now! Hear?”
From somewhere far below came the shriek of the engine siren,
sounding nearer and nearer, and the clang of the bells. And at that
moment the light in the office went out and they were in darkness.
 CHAPTER XXV
SAM SIGNALS FOR A FAST ONE

Tom Pollock was working late that evening at Cummings and

Wright’s. Baseball activities had put him behind with his
correspondence and he was trying to catch up with it. Only the light
over his desk was burning and the rest of the store was dim and
empty. As he sealed and addressed his final letter he glanced at the
little tin clock before him. The hour was just short of nine. In the act
of opening a drawer to get stamps, he paused with outstretched
hand and listened alertly. From down Main Street came the shrill,
unmistakable whistle of Amesville’s single auto-engine. Tom
gathered his letters into a pile, seized his cap, switched out the light,
and hurried to the door.
As he stepped onto the sidewalk and turned the key behind him
the whistle at the electric light plant burst on the air and, around the
corner of Alton Street, a few blocks above, a horse-drawn engine
sprang into sight, bell clanging, sparks flying. Tom joined the throng
which, springing seemingly from the very pavement, was hurrying
down the main street. Several blocks below, he could see the auto-
engine spouting red sparks into the air. The Alton Street hitch,
straining at their collars, thudding the pavement with flying hoofs,
raced past, followed in a moment by the hose-cart. Bells were
ringing at every street corner, it seemed, by the time Tom reached
the place where the police were herding the crowd back into the
cross streets and where the crew of the auto-engine were already
connecting with the hydrant at the corner. As the crowd gave back
before the commands of the police, Tom caught sight of several
rubber-coated firemen disappearing into the broad entrance of the
Adams Building nearly opposite.
 For the next few minutes confusion reigned. The hook-and-ladder
trundled up, more engines reached the scene, the throb of the
pumps began, fuel wagons dashed here and there, parting the
crowds, a third alarm boomed over the city. Ladders rose in air, grew
in length, swayed, and tottered against the tall building which reared
its slender front high above the surrounding roofs. But Amesville’s
new sky-scraper had been built only a few months, while her fire-
fighting apparatus was far older, and it was at once evident that the
longest of the extension ladders would not reach above the sixth
story. The crowd still laughed and joked excitedly. The Adams
Building was said to be fireproof and so the most that could happen
would be the burning-out of an office or two, scarcely serious work
for the whole department, they thought. Of course, it was right to be
on the safe side, but a third alarm seemed rather absurd, and when,
almost immediately, four blasts of the big whistle sounded, many
thought the Chief had gone crazy!
So far no sign of fire was to be seen outside the building. Its tier
on tier of dark windows gave no hint of what was going on inside.
Not a light showed anywhere, save when a fireman appeared at the
door with a lantern. But at last the blackness behind the windows
paled, took on a murky-red tinge, and smoke began to billow out at
the doorway. A great gasp of surprise and horror arose from the
watchers. Here, then, was no mere incident to bring an hour’s
amusement, but a veritable tragedy!
Further and further away the throngs were pushed and ropes
were strung across the streets. Tom found himself jammed against a
doorway on Bennett Street, his view of a corner of the big building
almost cut off by a broad-shouldered man in front of him. Searching
backward with his foot, he found a step and managed to ascend it,
those behind good-naturedly giving way. From somewhere came the
rumour that Chapinsville and even Bow City had been called on for
apparatus.
“It would take two hours to get engines here from Bow City,” said
an excited little man at Tom’s elbow. “Anyhow, they ain’t got enough
pressure to fight that fire. And they ain’t got the ladders.”
“Good thing it didn’t start in the daytime,” said another man. “Lots
of folks would have been burned up, I guess.”
“Don’t reckon there’s anyone in there now, do you?”
“No. They stop the elevators at eight. Besides, there wasn’t a light
showing when I got here, and that was before the auto-engine
came.”
“I heard,” said the broad-shouldered man in front of Tom, “that
there’s a man on the tenth floor. Don’t know how true it is. Hope it’s
not. If he’s up there he’ll have to burn—or jump!”
The voice was familiar and Tom leaned forward until he caught a
glimpse of the speaker’s face. It was Mr. George, and Tom spoke to
him eagerly.
“Don’t they have life nets, Mr. George?” he asked.
“Hello, Tom! I guess so, but you’ve got a mighty poor chance to
strike a net when you jump from the tenth story. I dare say it’s just
a fake. Folks imagine all sorts of things at a time like this.”
“Do you suppose they can save the building?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know how bad the fire is. One fellow said the whole inside
was burning, but I don’t know how much he knew about it.”
“Wish I could see better,” muttered Tom.
“Well, maybe if you’ll keep close to me we can get a better view,”
replied the other. “I’ve got a badge here somewhere. Come on and
keep hold of me.”
Slowly they wormed their way through the throng that packed the
street solidly from side to side. It seemed a long time before they at
last reached the rope and were challenged by a policeman. Mr.
George’s badge was sufficient, however, and the officer raised the
rope. But when Tom started to follow he was thrust back.
“Here, you, back of the rope there!”
 “He’s with me, Lieutenant,” said Mr. George. “It’s all right.”
The officer, who was not even a sergeant, looked doubtful, but Mr.
George’s air of authority, and the compliment, also, perhaps, had the
desired effect and Tom was allowed to pass. Before them the end of
the street lay well-nigh empty, and they hurried along it to the
corner of Main Street. Here engines were pumping, lines of hose
stretched like mammoth serpents across the wet pavements, and
rubber-clad fighters hurried by. About the entrance to the building a
knot of privileged persons gathered and thither Mr. George and Tom
went. Leaky hose drenched them and busy firemen shouldered
them. Shouts and commands sounded above the steady roar of the
engines. Two men came through the doorway from the smoky murk
beyond. One was the Chief, the other an assistant. They dripped
with water as they paused where Mayor Kelland stood.
“Can’t reach him from inside, Mr. Mayor,” said the Chief incisively.
“Everything’s burning around the well. We’ve got to try the scaling-
ladders, I guess. Either that or the net. Tell Cassidy, Jim, to start up
on the front. Hall’s office is on the side of the building about halfway
between front and staircase. You get on the roof over there and see
if you can find him. He hasn’t shown himself yet, and it may be he
got out, but I’m blessed if I see how he could. And no one’s seen
him around, as far as I can learn. Get a move on, Jim!”
Following the others, Tom and his companion hurried around the
side of the building, stumbling over pulsating hose, dodging spouting
geysers from leaky connections. From the further sidewalk the dark
wall of the building arose straight in air, a many-windowed cliff of
stone and brick. Eager and anxious eyes swept as best they could
the empty windows of the tenth floor. But a stone cornice at the
eighth story cut off the view to some extent, while the lights from
the street failed far short of that height.
“He said Mr. Hall,” whispered Tom troubledly. “You don’t suppose
it’s John Hall, do you? Why, he was out at the game this afternoon!”
 “Isn’t there something up there at that ninth window from the
corner?” asked Mr. George, peering intently upward. “Have a look,
Tom. See where I mean? Something’s moving. It’s a man! He’s
standing on the window-ledge! Chief, he’s up there! You can see him
now!”
Far up a form appeared dimly against the darkness of a window
and a shout arose from the group below, and at the moment
something struck the pavement with a crash.
The Chief darted forward and picked up a tattered sheet of white
paper, from which as he unfolded it broken particles of a glass
paper-weight tinkled. “Lantern here!” he shouted. A man held a light
and the Chief read the message aloud, “We’re cut off, three of us.
Find someone to throw a ball with twine on it from opposite roof.
We’ll light matches to give location. Hurry. Smoke bad, and fire
close.
“Hall.”
The Chief grunted. “Throw a ball from opposite roof, eh?” He
looked upward toward the top of the five-story bank building behind
them. “Where’d we get a ball and who’d throw it if we had it?” he
demanded impatiently.
“I’ll find a ball, sir, and twine,” cried Tom. “And—and I think I
could throw it across.”
The Chief turned and viewed him doubtfully an instant. Then, “Go
to it,” he said briskly. “Get your ball and hurry back here. Jerry, you
go with him and get him through. Come back here to the bank. Gus,
tell Murphy to break an entrance there unless the folks have opened
up. It’s a poor chance, but we’ll try it. They’ll never get up there with
the scaling-ladders, and I’d hate to see those fellows jump.”
Tom didn’t hear the last of it, though, for he was already racing
around the corner of Main Street, followed by the fireman. At the
rope he let the latter break a way through the crowd and pressed
closely at his heels. A block away they were free of the throng and
Tom sprinted to the store. A minute later he was inside and pulling
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