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 carry the 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.