“The meeting will come to order!”
Teeter was in the chair, looking over a talking, shifting, excited crowd of lads gathered in the school gymnasium. He had assumed the office, and no one had disputed him.
“The meeting will come to order!” he cried again.
“Order! Order!” begged George Bland and Peaches. “We can’t do anything like this.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Tommy Barton.
“Try and fix things so we can win ball games,” answered Tom Davis.
Joe did not say much. He realized that this was, in a measure, a meeting to aid him, and he felt it would be best to keep quiet. His friends were looking out for his interests.
“Order! Order!” begged Teeter again, and after many repetitions, and bangings of his gavel,he succeeded in producing some semblance of quietness.
“You all know what we’re here for,” went on Teeter.
“No, we don’t; tell us!” shouted some one.
“We’re here in the first place to make a protest against the way Hiram Shell and Luke Fodick managed the baseball team to-day,” went on Teeter, “and then we’ll consider what can be done to make things better. We ought to have won against Morningside to-day, and——”
“That’s the stuff!”
“That’s the way to talk!”
“Hit ’em again!”
These were a few of the cries that greeted Teeter’s announcement. He was very much in earnest.
“This isn’t a regular session of the athletic committee at all,” he resumed. “It’s a protest meeting, and it’s going to be sort of free and easy. Any fellow that wants to can speak his mind. I take it you all agree with me that we ought to do something.”
“That’s right!” came in a chorus.
“And we ought to protest against Hiram’s high-handed method. What about that?”
“That’s right, too,” responded several. Joelooked over the crowd. As far as he could see it was composed in the main of lads who were only probationary members of the school society—lads without voting power.
Neither Hiram nor Luke was present, and Joe could not see any of their particular crowd. He was mistaken in thinking that Hiram had no friends there, however, for no sooner had Teeter asked the last question than Jake Weston arose and asked in rather sneering tones:
“Do you call this giving a fellow a square deal?”
“What do you mean?” inquired Teeter. The room was quiet enough now.
“I mean just this,” went on the lad who was perhaps the closest of all on the nine to Hiram save Luke. “I mean that Hiram Shell isn’t here to defend himself, and you’re saying all sorts of mean things against him.”
“We intend to have him here—if he’ll come,” spoke Teeter significantly. “Luke, too. We want them to hear what we say about them.”
“You’re trying to disrupt the team!” yelled Jake, who had lost his temper.
“I am not! I’m trying to do anything to better the team. We ought to have won that game to-day, and you know it.”
“I know that I played my best!” shouted Jake, “and if you accuse me of——”
“Nobody’s accusing you,” put in Peaches.
Several lads were on their feet, all seeking to be heard. Teeter was vainly rapping with his gavel. It looked for a few moments as if there would be several fights, for lads were shaking their fists in each other’s faces.
“Why don’t you give Hiram a show?” demanded Jake. “Let him know this meeting is being held.”
“I sent word to him, but he didn’t come,” called Teeter, above the din.
“Well, he’s here now!” interrupted a sudden voice, and Hiram Shell fairly jumped into the room, followed by Luke and a score of their particular friends. “I just heard of this snap session, and I want to know what it’s about. How dare you fellows hold a meeting of the athletic committee when I didn’t call it?”
“Say, you drop that kind of talk!” fairly yelled Teeter. “This isn’t a meeting of the athletic committee!”
“Come on down off that platform!” demanded the bully striding toward the chairmanpro tem. “What right have you got there?”
“Just as much right as you have, and I’m goingto stick! This is just a meeting of the fellows of Excelsior Hall, and I’ve got just as much right to preside as you have.”
Perhaps it was the gavel which Teeter clenched in his hand, perhaps it was the fearless manner in which he faced Hiram, or perhaps it was the way in which Joe, Tom, Peaches and several of the larger students crowded up around Teeter, like a bodyguard, that caused Hiram to pause in his progress toward the chairman.
Whatever it was, it proved effective and probably prevented a serious clash, for Hiram was in the mood to have struck Teeter, who surely would have retaliated.
“Well, what’s it all about?” asked the bully, after a pause. “What do you fellows want, anyhow?”
“We want the ball team managed differently,” retorted Teeter.
“That’s right!” came from a score of ringing voices.
Hiram turned a bit pale. It was the first time he had ever witnessed an organized revolt against his authority.
“Aren’t you fellows satisfied with the way I manage things?” the bully sneered.
“No, and not with the way Luke Fodick captainsthe team,” went on the now fully aroused Teeter. “There’s got to be a change.”
“Aw, you’re sore because some of your friends can’t play!” cut in Jake Weston.
“Not at all,” spoke Teeter. “Everyone knows we should have won to-day, and what a miserable exhibition of baseball we gave! It was rotten, and we want to protest. We’re willing to let you continue as manager, Hiram, and have Luke for captain, only we fellows want to have more of a say in how the team is run.”
“Why, you fellows haven’t any rights!” cried Hiram. “A lot of you are only probationary members, anyhow, and can’t vote.”
“They don’t need to vote,” declared Teeter. “It isn’t a question of voting. We’re students at Excelsior—all of us—and we have a right to say what we think. We think things ought to be done differently.”
“That’s right—we’re with him,” was shouted in such a volume of energy that it clearly showed to Hiram that, even though he held the balance of power in the committee proper, yet he did not in the whole school, and it was to the whole school that the team would have to look for support. It was a crisis in the affairs of Excelsior Hall.
For a moment after the unexpected support of Teeter’s ultimatum to Hiram there was a tense silence. The lads who had come in with the bully—his supporting army so to speak—remained grouped around him and Luke. On the other side stood Teeter, Peaches, Tom, Joe and their friends, and a number of the better players of the school nine. Included among them were a number of the substitutes.
Hiram Shell looked around him. He must have been aware that his power might slip very easily from him now, unless something was done. It was no time to pursue his usual tactics. He must temporize, but he made up his mind that those who had revolted from his authority would pay dearly for it sooner or later.
“Well, what do you fellows want?” he fairly growled.
“I’ll tell you what we want,” said Teeter firmly.“In the first place we want this business of shifting players all about, stopped. A fellow gets used to playing in one position and he’s best there. Then you or Luke change him.”
“Well, hasn’t the captain the right to do that?” demanded Luke.
“Sure, yes,” spoke Peaches, “but when you get a good lad in a good place keep him there.”
“Is that all?” sneered Hiram.
“No, we think there ought to be better pitching,” went on the self-constituted chairman.
“Ha! I guess that’s where the whole trouble is!” cried Hiram quickly. “This meeting is for the benefit of Joe Matson.”
“Nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Joe quickly. “I knew nothing about it until Teeter told me. Of course I’d like to pitch; there’s no use denying that, but I don’t want any fellow to give way for me if he’s making good.”
“That’s the trouble—he isn’t,” put in Teeter.
Hiram took a quick resolve. He could smooth matters over now, and later arrange them to suit himself and Luke. So he said:
“All right, I admit that we didn’t make a very good showing to-day. But it was our first game, and Brown and Akers didn’t do very well in the box. But don’t be too hasty. Now I’ll tell youwhat I’ll do,” and he acted as though it was a big favor. “I’ll let you fellows have a voice when I make changes after this. We’ll do some harder practice. I’ll make Brown and Akers pitch better——”
“I don’t believe he can,” murmured Tom.
“We won’t make any more shifts—right away,” went on Hiram. “Maybe you fellows were right. I haven’t given as much time to the team as I should. But wait—we’ll win the Blue Banner yet.”
“That’s all we ask,” said Teeter. “We just wanted you to know how we felt about it, and if things are better and our nine can win, we won’t say another word.”
“All right, let it go at that,” and Hiram affected to laugh, but there was not much mirth in it. “Might as well quit now, I guess. Everybody out for hard practice next week. I want to see some better stick-work, and as for pitching—where are Brown and Akers?”
“Here!” cried the two boxmen.
“You fellows will have to brush up a bit on your speed and curves,” went on the bully manager. “Isn’t that right, Luke?”
“Sure,” grunted the captain. There was more talk, but it was not of the fiery kind and, for thetime, at least, the threatened disruption had passed. But there was still an undercurrent of dissatisfaction against Luke and Hiram.
“Well, I don’t see as it did an awful lot of good,” remarked Tom Davis to Peaches and Teeter, as they walked out of the gymnasium with Joe, a little later. “I don’t see that Joe is benefitted.”
“I didn’t expect much,” spoke our hero. “It was well meant and——”
“And it did good, too,” interrupted Teeter. “It’s the first time any one ever talked to Hiram like a Dutch Uncle, and I guess it sort of jarred him. He’ll sit up and take notice now, and it will be for the good of the team.”
“But where does Joe come in?” asked Peaches.
“Well, I figure it out this way,” replied Teeter. “Brown and Akers will try to make good but they can’t. The fellows will see that we’ve got to have a new pitcher, and Hiram will have to give ’em one. Then Joe will step in.”
“There are others as good as I in the school,” remarked Joe modestly.
“Well, they haven’t shown themselves if there are,” was Teeter’s retort. “No, Joe will be pitching before the season is over, you see if he isn’t.”
The question was discussed pro and con, as they went to their rooms, and continued after they got there until a monitor warned them that though permission had been given to hold a meeting it did not extend to midnight lunch.
It was one night, after a hard day on the diamond, that Joe and Tom, who were studying, or making a pretense at it, heard the usual knock on their door.
“Teeter and Peaches—I wonder what’s up now?” asked Tom.
“Let ’em in and they’ll tell us,” suggested Joe, as his roommate went to the door. It was kept locked, for often some of the fun-loving students would come in unannounced to create a “rough-house,” to the misery of the two chums.
As the portal swung back, there was revealed to Joe and Tom several sheet-clad white figures, each one with a mask of black cloth over his head. The sight was rather a weird one, and for the moment Tom was nonplussed.
“Shut the door,” commanded Joe quickly. “They’re up to some high jinks!”
Tom hesitated for a moment. If it was Peaches, Teeter and their friends, he did not want to shut them out, but, on the contrary might want to join the fun. If, on the contrary, it was a hostile crowdthere was no use getting into trouble. So Tom hesitated and was lost.
For a moment later, the throng of white-clad and unrecognizable figures (because of the masks) stepped into the room.
“We have come,” announced one in a voice that sounded hollow and deep, “to initiate you into the Mystic and Sacred Order of the Choo-Choo!”
“Get out, Peaches, I know your voice,” said Joe, not quite sure whether he did or not.
“Prepare to join the Mystic and Sacred Order of the Choo-Choo! Shall he not, comrades?” demanded a second figure.
“Toot! Toot! He shall!” was the answer in a chorus.
“That’s Teeter all right,” affirmed Tom.
“Come!” commanded the first figure, advancing to take hold of Tom’s arm.
“Shall we go, Joe?” asked his chum.
Joe thought a minute. There had been rumors in the school of late, that several initiations had been held into a newly-formed society. Reports differed as to what society it was, some lads stating that they had been made to join one and some another. But all agreed, though they did not go into particulars, that the initiations were anything but pleasant. Joe was as fond of fun as anyonebut he did not like being mistreated—especially when it was not by his friends.
“Don’t go!” he called suddenly to Tom.
“Then we’ll make you!” said the disguised voice. “Grab ’em fellows!”
Instantly there was a commotion in the room. Joe leaped back to get behind a sofa, but one of the black-masked figures was too quick for him and seized him around the neck. Our hero tried to tear the mask from the face to see who his assailant was, but other hands clasped his arms from behind and he was helpless.
Tom, too, was having his own troubles. He was beset by two of the unknowns and held in such a way that he could do nothing. The struggle though sharp was a quiet one, for the students did not want to attract the attention of a monitor or prowling professor.
“’Tis well,” spoke the lad who was evidently the leader, when Tom and Joe were held safely, their hands having been tied behind their backs. “Away with them to the dungeon deep, and they will soon be good, faithful and true members of the Mystic and Sacred Order of the Choo-Choo!”
Then, realizing that discretion was probably now the better part of valor, Joe and Tom meekly followed their captors.
“Where are you fellows taking us?” demanded Joe, as they walked softly down the corridor.
“Toot-Toot!” was all the answer he received.
“Say, we don’t mind having fun,” added Tom, “but if you fellows are going to cut up any, we want to know it.”
“Toot-Toot!” came again in imitation of a whistle. It was evident that this was a sort of signal or watchword among the members of the Order of Choo-Choo.
“These aren’t Peaches, Teeter, and our fellows,” spoke Joe into Tom’s ear as they were forced to descend a back and seldom used staircase.
“That’s right,” agreed Tom. “I wonder who they are?”
“Some of the seniors, maybe,” suggested the young pitcher. “I wish I knew where they are taking us.”
“The candidates who are about to be initiatedinto the Mystic and Sacred Order of the Choo-Choo will kindly keep quiet!” came the quick command from the leader. “Silence is imperative to have the spell work.”
“Oh, you dry up!” retorted Joe.
“Silence!” came the command again, emphasized this time by a dig in the ribs.
“You quit——” began our hero, but his voice ended in a grunt, for some one had hit him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He was indignant, and had half a mind to make a fight for it then and there. But he was practically helpless, and was descending a flight of stairs which made it dangerous to chance a scuffle. He made up his mind to fight when the time came.
“If you fellows——” began Tom.
“Silence over there!” hissed one of the white-robed figures. “If they talk any more, Master of Ceremonies, gag ’em.”
“Right, Chief Engineer,” was the hollow answer.
Tom thought it best to keep quiet. Silently the little crowd advanced. They halted at the door of one of the many store-rooms in the basement of the largest of the school dormitories. One of the lads opened the portals with a key. It was as black as pitch beyond.
“Enter, timid and shrinking candidates,” commanded some one. “Enter into the sacred precincts of the Choo-Choo.”
“Not much I won’t!” declared Joe. “I can’t see my hand before my face, and I’m not going into a dark room, not knowing what is there.”
“Me either!” declared Tom.
“It is so ordered,” came the deep voice of the leader. “Enter or be thrown in!”
Joe turned, trying in vain to pierce the disguise of the black mask. He struggled to free his arms from the rope that bound them, but could not. He was half-minded to strike out with his feet, but he was now so surrounded by the initiators that he could not. Besides, if he did that he might lose his balance and fall hard. Tom was in like straits.
“Forward, march!” came the command.
“I’m not going in I tell you!” insisted Joe.
“If he doesn’t go in, shove him,” came the command.
Joe, as he felt that resistance was useless, started forward. It was better to keep his own footing, if he had to go in the room and not run the risk of being shoved down.
Advancing cautiously, followed by Tom, the young pitcher stepped over the threshold. Almostinstantly he felt cold water spurting up around his ankles, and he sought to draw back. He did not want to fall into a deep tank, with his arms bound.
“Go on! Go on in!” was the command and he felt himself being shoved from behind. There was no help for it, but to his relief he found, as he advanced, that the water did not come higher than his knees.
“Great Scott! What are we up against?” asked Tom.
“Search me,” responded Joe.
“Silence! Blindfold ’em!” came a command, and before they could have prevented it, had they been able, Joe’s and Tom’s eyes were covered with big handkerchiefs.
“Keep on!” was the order again, and the candidates did, soon stepping out of the water upon the solid floor.
“Tie their feet,” was the next order, and this was done. “Now, candidates,” spoke the leader, “you have crossed the river of blood and the first part of your journey is over. But, to be good and loyal members of the Mystic and Sacred Order of Choo-Choo, it is necessary that you make a noise like a locomotive. Go ahead now, puff!”
For a moment Joe and Tom hesitated and then, absurd as it was, they entered into the spirit ofthe affair and gave as good an imitation as possible of a steam locomotive in operation.
“Very good! Very good,” was the comment. “Now go up grade,” and the blindfolded candidates were forced to go up a steep incline of boards, slipping and sliding back half the time.
“They are coming on,” commented some one. “At the next stop they take water. Hose-tender, get ready!”
“Hold on! What are you going to do?” demanded Joe.
“You’ll see,” was the answer. Joe and Tom were led to another part of the room. It was dimly lighted now, as they could see, for a faint glow came under the handkerchiefs.
A moment later each of the luckless candidates felt a cold stream of water strike him full in the face. They tried to duck, and to turn their heads away, but the others held them until the upper part of their bodies were thoroughly soaked.
“That’s enough for steam,” came the order from one of the party. “Now to see how they can carry passengers. Off with their bonds, but keep the blinders on.”
This was done.
“Down on your hands and knees, candidates,”came the order, and Joe and Tom had nothing for it but to obey.
A moment later some one sat on each back and again came the order:
“Forward march!”
Now Joe, while liking fun as well as any lad, thought there was a limit to it, and to the indignities of the initiation, especially in a mythical society which they did not care about joining. When a heavy lad, therefore, sat down on our hero’s back Joe made up his mind that matters had gone far enough.
“Go ahead! Carry your passenger!” was the command.
“Not by a jugful!” cried Joe, and with a quick motion he stood up, spilling off the lad on his back. The latter hit the floor with a resounding whack. The next instant Joe had torn off the blinding handkerchief, and made a grab for the lad whom he had upset. He tore off his mask and there was revealed the scowling face of Hiram Shell.
At the same moment Tom had done the same to his tormentor, discovering Luke Fodick under the black mask.
“Oh, so it’s your crowd, is it Hiram?” asked Joe.
“Yes, and by Jove, you’ll suffer for this! Why aren’t you sports enough to take your initiation as the others do?”
“Because we don’t choose to,” replied our hero.
“Then I’ll make you!” cried Hiram, doubling up his fists and leaping at Joe. “Come on, Luke, give ’em what’s coming to ’em!”
“Two can play at that game,” spoke Joe coolly. He noted that the room had been roughly fitted up as a sort of society meeting chamber. At the entrance was a long, narrow and shallow tank of water. It was through this that Joe and Tom had waded.
“I’ll fix you!” cried Hiram.
“All right,” agreed Joe easily. “As well here and now as anywhere, anytime.”
He threw himself into a position of defense as Hiram came on. Luke was advancing toward Tom, while the others, still wearing their masks, looked on in anticipation.
There might have been two stiff fights the next moment had there not suddenly sounded from without a series of startled cries. Then came the clanging of bells, and above the riot of noise the lads heard some one shouting:
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”
“What’s that?” asked half a dozen of the white-robed lads.
“Fire, somewhere,” answered Hiram, pausing in his rush toward Joe.
“Come on, this can wait,” added one of his companions. “We’re through with this initiation, anyhow.”
“But I’m not through with him,” snapped the bully with a glance of anger at the young pitcher. “I’ll settle with him later.”
“Fire! Fire!”
Again the cries rang out on the night air.
“The school must be on fire!” yelled Luke Fodick. “Come on, fellows!”
“Fire! Fire!”
Many voices now took up the cry outside, and through a partially-curtained window could be seen the dancing light of flames.
“Come on!” cried Joe to Tom. “We’ve got to be in on this, whatever it is!”
“Surest thing you know,” agreed his chum.
They rushed from the room, following after Hiram and Luke. The others straggled out as fast as they disrobed, for they did not want to be seen in their regalia by any of the school authorities who might be on hand after the alarm of fire.
“I hope it isn’t any of the school buildings!” exclaimed Joe as he and Tom raced along.
“That’s right. So do I. Look, you can see the reflection from here.”
The boys were opposite a window in the corridor, and over the roof and spire of the school chapel could be seen a lurid glare in the sky, but what was burning could not be made out.
“It’s the gym!” gasped Tom.
“Don’t you dare say that!” cried Joe, “and with the baseball season just starting.”
“Well, it looks like it anyhow.”
Together they raced on until they came to a door that gave egress to the campus. Students were pouring out from their rooms in all directions, some eagerly questioning, and others joining in the cries of “Fire!” No one seemed to know where the blaze was.
Professor Rodd came out with his precious tall hat in one hand and a bundle of books in the other.
“Is the school doomed, boys?” he asked.“How did it start? Have I time to save anything else? I have some Latin books——”
“I don’t know where it is, Professor,” answered Joe. “But it isn’t this building, anyhow.”
“Good! I’m glad of it. I mean I’m sorry it’s anywhere. Wait, and I’ll be with you to help fight the flames.”
He ran back to his quarters to return quickly minus his silk hat and the books, and he wore an old fashioned night-cap.
“There now, I’m ready,” he announced, and he ran on as though he had donned a modern smoke helmet, used by the firemen. The boys laughed, serious and exciting as the situation was.
Dr. Rudden saw our two friends hurrying across the campus together.
“Why, boys!” cried the coach and athletic director. “You’re all wet! How did it happen? Have you been playing the hose on the fire? Did it burst?”
“No, we haven’t been to the blaze yet,” answered Joe. “We had——”
“A sort of accident,” finished Tom, as his chum hesitated for the right explanation. Then they avoided further conversation by racing toward the blaze, the light of which was becoming every minute more glaring.
A stream of students and teachers was now hurrying across the campus, heading for the path around the chapel, which building hid the fire from sight. As Tom and Joe turned the corner they saw at a glance what was burning.
It was an old disused factory about half a mile from the school, a building pretty much in ruins and of little value save as a sleeping place for tramps. Several times in the past there had been slight fires there but they had been quickly extinguished, though many said it would have been as well to let the old structure burn down.
This time it seemed as if this would happen. The factory was of wood, and there had been no rain recently, so it was quite dry, and there was a brisk wind to fan the flames.
“I guess it’s a goner,” panted Tom.
“Looks that way,” agreed his chum.
“Here comes the fire department,” went on the other, as they heard the clanging of a bell down the road. A little later they could see, by the glare of the fire, a crowd of village men and boys dragging, by the long rope attached to it, a combined chemical engine, and hook and ladder vehicle. It was a new acquisition in the town of Cedarhurst, and the citizens were very proud of it, though they had no horses to pull it. But everyonewho could do so grabbed hold of the long rope.
“They’re making good time,” commented Joe.
“But they might as well save themselves. The old factory is better burned than standing. Guess some more tramps went in there.”
“Then they’d better be getting out by now,” observed the young pitcher, “for it must be pretty hot.”
The lads ran on, and soon found themselves close to the burning structure. The heat of the flames could be felt, and Tom and Joe moved back into the crowd that had gathered. Up clattered the fire apparatus, and there was the usual excitement, with everyone giving orders, and telling how it ought to be done.
Finally a chemical stream was turned on, the whitish foaming mixture of bicarbonate of soda, sulphuric acid and water spurting upon the flames. There was a hiss, and the part of the fire that was sprayed quickly died out.
But it was evident that several chemical streams would be needed if the fire was to be completely extinguished, whereas two lines of hose were all that were available. In fact nothing but a smothering deluge of water would have been effective, and this was not obtainable.
“They’ll never get that fire out!” cried a man in the crowd. “Why don’t you let it burn, Chief?”
“Because we’re here to put out fires. I’m going to——”
But what the chief was going to do he never said, for at that moment, above the crackling of the fire and the shouts of the men and boys, there arose an agonized shout.
“Help! Help! Save me!”
All eyes turned instinctively upward, and there, perched on the ledge of what had once been the clock tower of the factory, high above the roaring, crackling flames, stood a man, wildly waving his arms and crying:
“Help! Help! Save me!”
“Look! A man! He’ll be burned to death!” yelled a score of persons as they saw the danger.
“That’s about right, unless he gets down pretty soon,” shouted Tom into Joe’s ear. “Why doesn’t he go down?”
“Probably because the stairs are burned away,” was Joe’s shouted answer—everyone was shouting, partly to make themselves heard and partly because of the excitement, which was contagious.
“Help! Help!” cried the man again. He gaveone look below him and crowded closer to the outer edge of the tower.
“Look out! Don’t jump!” someone cried.
“We’ll save you!” shouted the chief. “Get the ladder, boys! Lively now!”
Scores of willing ones raced to the wagon and began pulling out the ladders. They were the extension kind, and could be made quite long. Several men ran with one toward the building.
“Not that side! The flames are too hot! You can’t raise it there!” cried the chief. “Try around back!”
The men obeyed but a moment later there came a disappointing shout:
“Too short! The ladder’s too short! Get a longer one!”
“That’s the longest we’ve got!” answered the chief.
“Then splice two together!” urged some one, but the suggestion could hardly have been carried out with safety. No one knew what to do. The flames were mounting higher and higher, bursting out on all sides now, so that in a few moments, even had there been a ladder long enough to reach to the man, it could not have been raised against the building.
“Help! Help!” continued to call the seemingly-doomedone. He moved still nearer to the edge of the tower.
“Don’t jump! Don’t!” yelled the crowd. “You’ll be killed!”
“He might just as well be killed by the fall as burned to death,” remarked one man grimly. “In fact I’d prefer it.”
“Can’t someone do something?” begged a woman hysterically.
The man held out his hands appealingly.
“Oh, if we only had an airship, we could rescue him!” murmured Tom.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Joe. “I have an idea. If I could only get a rope up to him he could slide down it, if we held the outer end away from the fire—a slanting cable you know.”
“That’s it!” yelled his chum.
“How are you going to get a rope up to him?” asked Luke Fodick, who was standing beside our hero. “No one could throw a rope up there.”
“No, perhaps not a rope,” admitted Joe, “but if I could throw a string we could tie the rope to the string and he could haul it up and fasten it.”
“But you can’t even throw a string up there,” insisted Luke.
“Of course not!” added Hiram, who had joined his crony. “Nobody could.”
“Yes they can—I can!” cried Joe. “I’ll throw up this ball of cord. It will unwind on the way up if I keep hold of one end of it,” and he pulled from his pocket a ball of light but strong cord. Joe used it to wind around split bats. “I’m going to throw this,” cried the young pitcher. “Hey there!” he yelled to the man on the tower. “Catch this as it comes, and pull up the rope we’re going to fasten on!”
The man waved his hands helplessly. He could not hear.
“Where you going to get the rope?” asked Tom.
“Off the fire apparatus, of course. It’s long and strong. Tom, you go get the rope off; I’ve got to make the man hear and understand before I can throw the cord.”
“That’s the stuff! The rope from the engine!” cried the man near Joe. “That’s the idea, young fellow!”
Accompanied by Tom, the man raced to the engine. He quickly explained what the plan of rescue was, and others aided in taking from the reel the long rope by which the apparatus was pulled. Once more Joe shouted his instructions, while the fire raged and crackled and the crowd yelled.
“Quiet! Quiet!” begged Joe. “I’ve got to make him hear!”
“Make a megaphone—here’s a newspaper,” suggested a man. He quickly rolled it into a cone, tore off the small end to make a mouthpiece and Joe had an improvised megaphone. Through it he begged the crowd to keep silent, and at last they heard and understood.
“I’m going to throw you a ball of cord!” called Joe through the paper cone to the man on the tower. “Catch it, and when I yell again, pull up the rope. Fasten it to the tower and we’ll hold the ground end out and away from the flames. Then slide down.”
The man waved his hands to show that he understood. Then Joe got ready to throw up the cord.
“He can’t do it! He’ll never be able to get that ball up to the man. It will fall short or go into the flames,” said Luke Fodick.
“He can’t, eh?” asked Tom, who came back, helping to pull the long rope. “You don’t know how Joe Matson can throw. Just watch him.”
And, amid a silence that was painfully tense, the young pitcher got ready to deliver a ball on which more depended than on any other he had ever thrown in all his life.
Joe hesitated a moment. Everything would depend on his one throw, because there was no chance to get another ball of cord, and if this one went wide it would fall into the fire and be rendered useless.
The fire was increasing, for all the chemicals in the tank on the wagon had been used, and no fresh supply was available. Below the tower on which the man stood, the flames raged and crackled. Even the tower itself was ablaze a little and at times the smoke hid the man from view momentarily.
“I’ll have to wait until it clears,” murmured the young pitcher, when, just as he got ready to throw, a swirl of vapor arose.
“You can’t wait much longer,” said Tom, in an ominously quiet voice.
“I know it,” agreed Joe desperately, and it was but too evident. The tower itself, weakened by the fire, would soon collapse, and would carrythe man down with it into the seething fire below.
“Throw! Throw!” urged several in the throng.
Joe handed the loose end of the cord to Tom. He wanted to give all his attention to throwing the ball. He poised himself as if he was in the pitching box. It was like a situation in a game when his side needed to retire the other in order to win, as when two men were out, three on bases and the man at bat had two strikes and three balls. All depended on one throw.
With a quick motion Joe drew back his arm. There was an intaking of breath on the part of the crowd that could be heard even above the crackling of the flames. All eyes were centered on the young pitcher.
“He’ll never do it,” murmured Hiram Shell.
“If he does he’s a better pitcher than I’ll ever be,” admitted Frank Brown.
Suddenly Joe threw.The white ball was plainly visible as it sailed through the air, unwinding as it mounted upward. On and on it went, Joe, no less than every one in the crowd, watching it with eager eyes. And as for the man on the tower he eagerly stretched out his hands to catch the ball of cord, on which his life now depended.
THE WHITE BALL WAS PLAINLY VISIBLE AS IT SAILED THROUGH THE AIR.THE WHITE BALL WAS PLAINLY VISIBLE AS IT SAILED THROUGH THE AIR.
Straight and true it went, as swift and as directa ball as Baseball Joe had ever delivered. Straight and true—on and on and then——
Into the hands of the anxiously waiting man went the ball of cord. Eagerly he clutched it, while the crowd set up a great cheer.
“That’s the stuff!” yelled a man in Joe’s ear. “You sure are one good pitcher, my boy!”
“Never mind about that now,” said the practical Joe. “Fasten on the rope. Quick!”
Willing hands did this, and Joe looked to see if the knot would not slip. He seemed to have assumed charge of the rescue operations.
“Haul up!” he yelled to the man through the newspaper megaphone. “Haul up the rope and make it fast. Then, when I give the signal, slide down.”
The man waved his hands to show that he understood, and the next moment he began pulling on the cord. The rope followed. Quickly it uncoiled from where the strands had been piled in readiness for just this. Up and up the man on the tower pulled it until he held the end of the heavy rope in his hands.
There now extended from the tower to the ground a slanting pathway of rope, such as is sometimes seen leading down into a stone quarry. It was high enough above the flames to enable aman to swing himself along above them, though doubtless he would have to pass over a zone of fierce heat.
“All ready! Come on down!” yelled Joe, and the man on the tower lost no time in obeying.
He let go the rope as his feet touched the earth and then with a groan he collapsed. The crowd closed in around him, and two minutes later the tower, with a crash, toppled into the midst of the seething furnace of fire. The rescue had been made none too soon.
“Don’t crowd around him so!” shouted Joe, hurrying over to where the man lay.
He pushed his way into the throng, followed by Tom, and the two lads actually forced the men and boys away from the man, who had evidently fainted. Joe whipped off his coat and made a pillow for the sufferer’s head.
As he bent over him, the man’s face was illuminated by the glare from the burning factory, and our hero started back in astonishment.
“Isaac Benjamin!” he exclaimed, as he recognized the former manager of the Royal Harvester works where Mr. Matson had been employed. Isaac Benjamin, the man who, with Mr. Rufus Holdney, had conspired to ruin Joe’s father by getting his patents away from him.
“Isaac Benjamin!” said Joe again.
Mr. Benjamin opened his eyes. Into them came the light of recognition as he gazed into Joe’s face. He struggled to a sitting position.
“Joe—Joe Matson!” he murmured. “I—I hope your father will forgive me. I—I——”
“There, don’t think of that now,” said Joe gently. “Are you hurt?”
“No—nothing of any consequence. I’m not even burned, thanks to you. I climbed up into the tower when I found the place on fire. I—I—Joe, can you ever forgive me for trying to ruin your father?”
“Yes, of course. But don’t talk of that now,” Joe said, while the crowd looked on and wondered at the man and boy knowing each other—wondered at their strange talk.
“I—I must talk of that now—more—more danger threatens your father, Joe.”
Joe thought perhaps the man might be in a delirium of fright, and he decided it would be best to humor him.
“That’s all right,” he said soothingly. “You’ll be taken care of. We’ve sent for a doctor. How did you come to be in the old factory?”
“I—I was sleeping there, Joe.” Mr. Benjamin’s tones did not indicate a raving mind.
“Sleeping there?” There was surprise in the boy’s voice.
“Yes, Joe, I’m down and out. I’ve lost all my money, my friends have gone back on me—though it’s my own fault—I have lost my home—my position—everything. I’m an outcast—a tramp—that’s why I was sleeping there. There were some other tramps. They were smoking—I guess that’s how the fire started. They got away but I couldn’t.”
The man’s voice was excited now, and Joe tried to calm him. But Mr. Benjamin continued.
“Wait, Joe, I have something to tell you—something important—a warning to give you. If we—can we talk in private?”
“Yes, later, when you are stronger,” answered the lad soothingly.
“Then it may be too late,” went on Mr. Benjamin. “I am strong enough now. It was just a passing faintness. I—I am weak—haven’t had much to eat—I’m hungry. But no matter. Here, come over here, I’ll tell you.”
He struggled to his feet with Joe’s aid and led the lad aside from the crowd, which parted to make way for them.
“I’m down and out, Joe. Money and friends all gone.”
“What about Mr. Holdney?”
“He too, has deserted me—turned against me, though I helped him in many schemes. I’m nothing but a tramp now, Joe.”
The young pitcher looked at the wreck of the man before him. Truly he was “down and out.” His once fine and well-dressed appearance had given place to a slouchy attire.
“But I must tell you, Joe. Your father’s patent rights are again in danger. Rufus Holdney is going to try to get some valuable papers and models away from him. That’s what he and I quarreled over. I’d do anything to spoil his plans, after he has thrown me off as he has. I left him, and since then I have had only bad luck. I don’t know how I came to come here. I didn’t know you were here. But warn your father, Joe, to look well after his new patents. Warn him before it is too late.”
“I will,” promised Joe. “I will. Thank you for telling me. Now we must look after you.” And indeed it was high time, for, as the young pitcher spoke Mr. Benjamin tottered and would have fallen had not our hero caught him.
“Quick, get a doctor!” cried Joe, as the crowd surged up again around the unfortunate man, who had fainted.
Attention was divided, on the part of the crowd, between the man who had been rescued, and the fire. The old factory was now burning fiercely and it was useless to try to save the structure. In fact, nearly everyone was glad that it had been destroyed, for it would harbor no more tramps. So the man who had been so thrillingly rescued was the greater attraction.
Fortunately there was a doctor in the throng, and he gave Mr. Benjamin some stimulants which quickly brought him out of his faint. Then a carriage was secured, and the man was taken to the village hotel, Joe agreeing to be responsible for his board. Though Mr. Benjamin had treated Mr. Matson most unjustly, and had tried to ruin him, yet the son thought he could do no less than to give him some aid, especially after the warning.
“Well, I guess it’s all over but the shouting,as they say at the baseball games,” remarked Tom to Joe. “Let’s get home. I’m cold,” for they had both been drenched over the upper part of their bodies by the initiation, and the night wind was cold, in spite of the fact that Spring was well advanced.
“So am I,” admitted Joe, as he watched the carriage containing Mr. Benjamin drive off. “I’d like some good hot lemonade.”
The fire now held little attraction for our friends and they hastened back to the dormitory, Joe explaining on the way how he had unexpectedly rescued a former enemy of his father’s.
“And aren’t you going to send some word home about that warning he gave you?” asked Tom, as Joe finished. “That Holdney scoundrel may be working his scheme now.”
“Oh, yes, sure. I’m going to write to dad as soon as we get back to our room. Sure I’m going to warn him. I’m mighty sorry for Mr. Benjamin. He’s a smart man, but he went wrong, and now he’s down and out, as he says. But he did me a good service.”
“It doesn’t even things up!” spoke Teeter. “He surely would have been a gone one but for you.”
“Oh, some one else might have thought of thatway of getting him down if I hadn’t,” replied Joe modestly. “I remember a story I read in one of the books I had when I was a kid. A fellow was on a high chimney, and a rope he had used to haul himself up slipped down. A big crowd gathered and no one knew how to help him. His wife came to bring his dinner and she got onto a scheme right away.
“‘Hey, John!’ she called ‘unravel your sock. Begin at the toe!’ You see he had on knitted socks. Well, he unravelled one, got a nice long piece of yarn and lowered it to the ground. He tied on his knife, or something for a weight. Then they fastened a cord to the yarn, and a rope to the cord, he pulled the rope up and got down off the chimney.”
“Your process, only reversed,” commented Tom. “I say fellows,” he added, “let’s run and get warmed up. I’m shivering.”
“It was warm enough back there at the fire,” said Teeter, as he looked to where the blaze was now dying out for lack of material on which to feed.
“Beastly mean of Hiram and Luke,” commented Peaches. “They’re getting scared I guess. I hope we get ’em out of the nine before the season’s over.”
Joe and Tom entertained their friends with crackers and hot lemonade, and none of the professors or monitors annoyed them with attentions. They must have known of it, when Peaches went to get the hot water in the dormitory kitchen, but it is something to have a hero in a school, and Joe was certainly the hero of the night.
The two lads, who had been thoroughly soaked, stripped and took a good rub down, and this, with the hot lemonade, set them into a warm glow. Then they sat about and talked and talked until nearly midnight.
Joe wrote a long letter to his father explaining all the circumstances and warned him to be on the lookout. One of the janitors who had to arise early to attend to his duties promised to see that the missive got off on the first morning mail.
“There, now, I guess we’ll go to bed,” announced Joe.
There was much subdued excitement in chapel the next morning, and Dr. Fillmore made a reference to the events of the night before.
“I am very proud of the way you young gentlemen behaved at the fire,” he said. “It was an exciting occasion, and yet you held yourselves well within bounds. We have reason to be very proudof one of our number who distinguished himself, and——”
“Three cheers for Joe Matson!” yelled Peaches, and they were given heartily—something that had never before happened in chapel. Dr. Fillmore looked surprised, and Professor Rodd was evidently pained, but Dr. Rudden was observed to join in the ovation, over which Joe blushed painfully.
Joe caught a cold from his wetting and exposure. It was nothing serious, but the school physician thought he had better stay in bed for a couple of days, and, much against his will the young pitcher did so.
“How is baseball practice going on?” he asked Tom after the first day. “I wish I could get out and watch it.”
“Oh, it’s going pretty good. We scrubs have a hard job holding the school nine down when you’re not there to pitch. There’s a game with Woodside Hall to-morrow, and I guess we’ll win.”
Excelsior Hall did win that contest, but not by as big a score as they should have done. It was the old story of Hiram and Luke not managing things right, and having weak pitchers. Still itwas a victory, and served to elate the bully and his crony.
It was on the third day of Joe’s imprisonment in his room, and his cold was much better. He had heard that Mr. Benjamin had recovered and left the hotel; no one knew for what place.
He sent Joe a note of thanks, however, and it came in with some mail from home. Joe opened the home letters first. There was one from his father, enclosed in one from his mother and Clara.