As a matter of fact, Joe did not have any definite plan, but his friend had called on him for aid and his one thought was to fly to his assistance. The idea uppermost in his mind was to locate the building, reconnoiter it, and then see what he could do. It seemed hours before he finally got out of the subway at East Eighteenth Street, although really the trip was a short one. He walked rapidly in the direction of the East River, scanning the house numbers as he went.
It did not take him long to find the address that Jim had scribbled in his note. Opposite this house was a big building that looked as though it had once been used as a warehouse. There seemed to be no sign of life about it now, however. There were few windows, and most of these were tightly boarded up.
Joe scanned the front anxiously, wondering if the note had been a fake after all. Even if Jim were in the place, how could he let Joe know it?
These and many other doubts passed through Joe’s mind as he stood looking at the high, drab wall of the place. But suddenly, from a small window close to the roof, a hand was waved and a moment later Joe saw the face of his friend framed in the opening.
Joe waved back to him, and a few minutes later he saw a bit of paper come fluttering down. Joe picked it up almost before it had touched the roadway and scanned its contents.
“Be careful, Joe, and whatever you do, don’t call the police,” read the note. “If this place is raided, the first thing they’ll do is get me out of the way. Try and get a rope up to me some way. If you can’t, it will be bad for me.”
Joe measured the height of the window with his eye. It was at least one hundred feet from the ground, but suddenly Joe had an inspiration.
He waved his hand to let Jim know that he had gotten the note and understood, and then walked at top speed toward Second Avenue. After a further walk of a few short blocks, he saw a small hardware store. He purchased a long coil of stout hemp rope and a ball of light but strong twine. Then in a small stationery store he bought a baseball, and with his newly acquired property he hurried back to the place where his friend was held prisoner.
Fortunately for Joe’s project, that part of the city, close to the East River, is a quiet neighborhood, far removed from the roaring tides of traffic that go surging up and down the main avenues. The inhabitants of that neighborhood are prone to mind their own business, and while several people whom he passed looked curiously at his unusual equipment, no embarrassing questions were asked. The old warehouse was the last building between the street and the river, and when Joe got to it the street seemed deserted, for which he was duly grateful.
Taking the baseball from his pocket, he wound it firmly about with twine and then attached a long string of that material to it. While he was making these preparations, he could see Jim peering from the little window, and he knew that his friend would quickly understand his plan.