“It came off,” answered someone. “Here’s the cord.”
Mr. George quickly stripped the tin-foil from another clean, white ball, looped the end of the cord once more and once more pushed the thumb tack into the tough leather with a grunt. “There you are, Tom,” he said. “Here’s luck!”
“I guess you’ll have to hurry,” said a newspaper man. “Looks as if the fire was in there now, don’t it?”
It did, for the window, dark before, now shone dull red and Sam’s form was silhouetted plainly against it. Tom seized the ball, measured his distance again, silently prayed for success, stepped forward, and threw. [A breathless silence then. The figure on the ledge settled back.] The ball was lost in the shadow of the tall building. Still those on the roof waited and still no sound came, until, suddenly, faintly, there was a hail from above.
“Got it! Tie on your rope!”
It was nearly a fortnight later. Sam, returning at dusk along Main Street from the ball field after an afternoon of fall practice, paused in front of Cummings and Wright’s and, one hand thoughtfully fingering the change in his pocket, viewed admiringly the array of football goods displayed in one big window. He had more than half promised the captain of the high school eleven to try for the team as soon as baseball was shelved for the winter. If he did, he reflected, he’d have to spend quite a little money for togs, and, now that he was firmly resolved to go to college next year, he could ill afford to part with any of his slender horde. Ruminating, he turned his gaze up the street, along which the lights were already beginning to flash. Against the darkening sky the smoke-blackened shell of the Adams Building towered empty and forlorn. A frown creased Sam’s forehead as his eyes rested on the tall structure with its broken windows and grimy walls. He had not yet got so he could recall that experience without a sudden sickening sensation at his heart. He sometimes wondered if he would ever be able to forget that awful quarter of an hour up there, the anxious period when, held firmly by Mr. Hall and Mr. York, he had waited there on the outer ledge and hoped against hope that Tom’s aim would be true, or the hazardous descent by the rope with the flames almost licking at their heels. They had made him go first, when it had seemed that there was scarce time for all to escape. He remembered how quietly and calmly Mr. Hall had instructed him about wrapping the rope about his leg and lowering himself down, and how Mr. York had assured him that if he went slowly and kept his head he would reach the ground safely. Well, it was something to have gone through such a test with men like those, he reflected, and now that it was over—his eyes narrowed as he gazed thoughtfully up the busy street—well, now that it was all over he was almost glad that it had happened. Somehow, life had seemed finer and bigger since that night!
A tapping on the broad pane beside him caused him to look around. At the back of the window Tom Pollock was knocking on the glass with a hockey stick and beckoning him inside. Sam smiled faintly, nodded, and entered. The store held few customers, and none on the sporting goods side. Tom closed the panel at the back of the window and turned with a smile.
“Ah,” he said, “Mr. Craig, I believe! Champion ten-story catcher of the Sky-scraper League! What were you doing out there, Sam? Going to sleep?”