When he arrived at the family hotel the clerk, a young woman, threw up her hands in mingled wonder at his unkempt appearance and delight at his return. She had a keen interest in both Joe and Jim, and had been sorely grieved at their disappearance.
Joe gave her a brief sketch of his experience and told her that Jim was still missing.
“Oh, that reminds me!” exclaimed the clerk. “A note came from Mr. Barclay not an hour ago, and as you weren’t here I was going to call up Mr. McRae and tell him about it.”
“A note from Jim!” exclaimed Joe. “Who brought it? Let’s have a look at it.”
The clerk turned to her desk, and finally produced a crumpled scrap of paper.
“There it is,” she said, handing it to Joe. “It was brought by the dirtiest boy I ever saw. He said that he saw it thrown out of a window, and when he saw that it was addressed to Joe Matson he pretty near killed himself to bring it here. He seemed awfully disappointed when I told him you weren’t here. He talked to me the longest while about what a wonderful pitcher you were, and it was all I could do to get rid of him. I never could understand why people think it’s such a wonderful thing to be able to throw a baseball around,” and she smiled.
But Joe did not hear a word that she was saying. He was engrossed in the note, which had been scribbled on a torn piece of brown wrapping paper.
“The crooks have got me in a house opposite to number 821 East 17th St. Am taking a chance that you’ve got clear and can help me. Come if you can. Jim.”
“Will I!” exclaimed Joe. “I’ll tell the world!” and he bounded up the stairs to his room.
“Tell the world what?” called the clerk after him, but she got no answer. Joe scrubbed the worst of the dirt off his hands and face, jumped into another suit of clothes, and was out the door like a shot, much to the disappointment of the young woman clerk, who was consumed with curiosity to know his plans.