But no attack came. Instead, a tiny shaft of light, reflected from a flashlight in the newcomer’s hand, lit the place dimly. By its rays Joe recognized the man who had said that he used to be a ball player and who had seemed to take an interest in him.
“Don’t make a sound, Matson,” he warned. “If they catch me, there’ll be two of us in a desperate plight to-night, instead of one. The big chief has sworn to get you to-night, and he’d just as soon knock me out at the same time.”
“What has he got against you?” asked Joe curiously.
“Nothing yet. But he would have if he knew I was helping you escape.”
“Escape!” echoed Joe, hardly willing to believe his ears. “Do you really mean that you’re going to help me get away from this place?”
“That’s what,” averred the other. “I’m taking my life in my hands to do it, but I couldn’t stand by and let them injure—or worse—a game ball player like you. I’ve seen you pitch more than once, and you’re too good to have a fate like that. I told you I used to be a ball player myself, before drink put me down and out. But we can’t waste time talking here. Follow me, and I’ll see if I can get you out.”
He led Joe through the cellar until they reached the stairs leading to the first floor. They had started to ascend when the guide stopped, and Joe could hear voices from above. Joe recognized the voice of the leader, raised in angry protest.
“I’m not going to argue with you any more now,” he shouted. “The bunch will be at Bill Davendorp’s to-night, and we’ll hash out the whole thing then and make our plans. If that doesn’t suit you, I can’t help it.”
Joe could not hear what the other man said, but he apparently spoke soothingly, and their voices dropped to an indistinguishable monotone.