“Just the distance between bases,” muttered Tom. “I’ll try to get it to him coming down, I guess.”
“I wouldn’t, Tom. Sam’s used to catching them straight. Sock it right at him. If he can see it he’ll get it.”
“Well,” answered Tom doubtfully. He fixed his fingers around the ball, saw that the twine ran unentangled to the coil, which Mr. George had laid beside him, and took a long breath. Now that the moment had come he was losing his nerve, or so it seemed to him. The others drew aside in silence, only a whisper disturbing the stillness up there, although from below came the throb of the busy engines, the murmur of the throngs, the shrill signalling of an engine asking for fuel. Mr. George raised the trumpet to his mouth again.
“All ready, Sam! Get it, boy!”
There was a faint answer, drowned by the quick scraping of Tom’s shoes on the loose gravel, and off sped the ball, grey-white in the half-darkness, up and away toward the dimly illumined window and the motionless form poised there. There was a quick gasp from the thrower as he recovered. Then a moment of anxious silence broken by a murmur of disappointment. The ball had gone three feet wide of the window and, although Sam had been seen to lean dangerously to the right, he had failed to touch it, and it had rebounded from the wall and fallen to the street. Eager hands found the line and began to pull it back over the edge of the roof.
“Pretty near,” said Mr. George cheerfully. “A little more to the left next time, Tom. You’ve got the distance all right.”
“My foot slipped on the gravel,” panted Tom. “He’s saying something, isn’t he?”
The Chief commanded silence and from across the darkness came Sam’s voice untroubledly, “Three feet further to the left, Tom! I almost had it! Make it be good! Right over now in the groove!”
“Plucky young fellow,” growled the Chief. “Got that ball yet?”