In another moment they were out on the roof, their feet scraping over the pebbles. It was less dark up here than it had been below, for the stars were bright and shed a soft light upon them as they crept cautiously in the wake of a swinging lantern toward the edge of the roof nearest the Adams Building. The wall of that structure loomed darkly like the side of some giant cliff, but in a moment they picked out the waiting figure at the window, still high above them. A spark of yellow light appeared and waved between the wide-spread legs of the figure on the sill.
“They’re lighting matches,” said the Chief. “All ready there, young fellow?”
“Just a moment,” panted Tom. He was coiling his fishing line on the roof in wide loops while Mr. George was fixing an end of it to a ball with the aid of a thumb tack. From across the dim canyon of the side street and well up toward the blue-black sky the little yellow lights flared and burned, and died away. The throng on the roof grew silent as Mr. George, borrowing the Chief’s trumpet, advanced to the very edge of the roof.
“Hello, there!” he shouted.
Very faintly above the noise from below came the answering hail.
“Hello!”
“Can you catch this?”
“I think so! Aim for the light!”
“Who are you?”
“Sam Craig!”