“That’s just the cheese, if it will hold me,” murmured the lad. “I’m going to try it anyhow.”
He crawled out on the window sill, tested the rod as best he could, and then swung himself down it. To his joy it held, and in a few seconds he was safe on the ground.
“Now to find out where I am, and streak it for school and the game!” he murmured, looking around to see that the farmer was not in sight. He got his bearings and was soon out on a dusty highway. He ran for some distance until a turn in the road hid the house of his captivity from him, and then slowed down to a walk.
The surroundings were still unfamiliar to him, but meeting a man driving a carriage he learned that he was near the village of Belleville, about twenty miles from Westfield.
“And it’s coming on noon, I haven’t half enough to buy a railroad ticket, and the game is called at two o’clock!” groaned Bill. “I certainly am up against it good and hard!”
The man whom he had accosted was going in the wrong direction, or he would have given the lad a lift. However, he did consent to drive him to the railroad station.
“I’ll see if I can’t give the agent a hard-luck story, and have him trust me for a ticket,” thought the pitcher.
But the station agent proved to be a hard-featured man, who had once lost a dollar by lending it to a young lady who told him a pathetic story, and he turned a deaf ear to Bill’s pleading.
“No money no ticket,” he declared.
“But look here,” gasped Bill. “Some fellows, either at my school, or from Tuckerton, played a joke on me last night—kidnapped me. I’m to pitch in the championship Freshman baseball game at two o’clock this afternoon, and I’ve just got to be there. I’ll pay you back if you trust me for a ticket. Or say, you can ship me as express, C. O. D. and the boys will pay the charges at Westfield.”