THE BOY ON THE DERRICK ARM.
After this great race Joe was looked upon more as a professional
bicycle rider than anything else.
“He’ll make his mark, see if he don’t,” said his friends, and it looked
as if this would be true.
Business in Lockport was picking up. Several new factories had been
started and the town was fast growing into a city.
“Let us go into the bicycle business, father,” said Joe one day. “A
store of that kind ought to pay.”
The matter was talked over for several weeks, and finally Mr. Johnson
decided to make the venture, and a store was opened, with Paul and Joe
in charge. Mr. Johnson was not to give up his present place until the
new venture was an assured success.
This it speedily was, and Joe’s father resigned his position at the
planing mill and enlarged the store, adding a general line of hardware
and farming implements.
The ground where the old Rayley’s Row had stood had been cleared of all
the _débris_ left by the fire, and now the owners of the land were
putting up a row of fine brick stores and dwellings which were destined
to be the pride of the place.
Late one afternoon Joe was passing the buildings where a great number
of children were at play in the heaps of sand and on the piles of
lumber which incumbered the street.
Suddenly a boy on the top of one of the buildings let out a sharp cry
of fear.
Joe looked up and saw a sight that almost caused his heart to stop
beating.
The boy had in some way been caught on the end of the arm of a big
derrick used for hoisting building material.
The arm had swung around and the boy now hung over the street, forty
feet below.
He was caught only by his back, and should his coat rip away he would
be hurled to his death.
Taking in the situation at a glance, our hero ran up one ladder after
another until the top of the building was reached.
“Save Willie Gray!” screamed a dozen boys.
They were trying to swing the arm of the derrick around, but could not.
Some of the machinery would not work, and although Joe took a hand, the
long arm with its human burden would not budge.
Then Joe resolved to go to the boy’s rescue.
Cautiously he climbed out on the long arm on hands and knees.
It was a daring thing to attempt.
Should Joe slip and lose his hold, he would fall forty feet to the
pavement below.
That would mean but one thing--death.
Yet our hero did not falter. He was made of sterner stuff.
Inch by inch he moved along, while a crowd gathered in the street below
to watch him.
“Be careful, young fellow!”
The derrick arm wobbled a little, and this made the daring feat still
more difficult.
Joe was now within two feet of the boy, who was struggling madly to
catch hold of the arm of the derrick.
Rip! The boy’s coat tore away from where it was caught, and the youth
gave a scream, thinking he was lost.
With a quick leap our hero grabbed him by the collar just as he was
dropping.
“He has him!”
“A close call for the youngster!”
With his strong right arm Joe landed the boy on the top of the derrick
arm. But the lad was too frightened to save himself even then and
clutched at Joe.
“Save me! Don’t leave me!” he moaned piteously.
It was no easy matter for our hero to move backward with the frightened
lad clinging to him. Yet back he went, inch by inch.
The crowd held its breath, expecting each instant to see Joe and his
charge come crashing to the pavement.
But at last the top of the building was reached.
The boy had fainted.
He was quickly surrounded by a score of men and women, among the number
being his mother.
The thankful woman hugged the boy to her breast and then turned to
thank Joe for his great service.
But the brave youth was not to be found.
He had slipped through the crowd and hurried down the several ladders
to the street.
The boys wondered what made Joe so sober that night and the next day.
The local paper came out with a long account of the daring rescue, and
our hero received great praise.
For a long while after this matters moved along quietly with Joe.
One day, while he was sitting on the porch, talking over bicycle races
with a rider named Roy Crossley, Mr. Johnson came to him with a bulky
envelope.
“Suppose you deliver this letter for me on your wheel?” said Mr.
Johnson. “It will give you something to do, and I would rather have it
delivered by hand than trust it in the mails.”
“Where is it to go?”
“To a man named Franshaw, who lives up about two miles back of
Independence. If I put it in the mails he may not get it for three or
four days, and I want to see him to-morrow, if possible. Perhaps Roy
would like to ride with you.”
“Certainly; we were just wondering where we should go,” replied Roy
Crossley.
“We can’t go up there and back by dinner time, though,” put in Joe.
“Then let us take our lunches and make a day of it,” suggested the
other bicyclist.
This was agreed upon; and half an hour later the two boys set off on
their bicycles, each with a neat lunch in paper strapped to his handle
bar, and Joe with the communication for Mr. Franshaw tucked away in a
back pocket, under his blue sweater.
The early morning had been somewhat misty, but now the sun came out
strong for a day in the spring time. The roads were dry, but without
dust, ideal in every way for the trip before them.
“As we have the whole day before us, let us take it easy,” suggested
our hero, as Roy started off at his usual high rate of speed.
“Joe, you’re getting lazy!” laughed Roy. “Come on. I’ll race you to the
turn.”
But Joe would not race, and his chum was forced to slow down, much to
his dissatisfaction. Slowly they rode on, and turned into the road
leading to Independence.
“I wish I’d had a drink before I left home,” remarked Joe presently.
“I’m awfully thirsty.”
“We can stop at the next house for water,” returned Roy, but before the
next building was reached they espied an old-fashioned well situated in
a rocky field to their right.
“We’ll get a drink up there,” cried Joe. “Come on;” and coming to a
halt, he dismounted and dragged his wheel up against the rail fence.
Roy followed, and the pair were soon over the fence and into the field.
They had quite some fun working the long well sweep, and when Roy was
getting his drink out of the mossy bucket Joe playfully ducked his nose
for him, and got a handful of water down his neck in consequence.
“I like to drink out of an old well,” observed Roy, when they were once
more on their journey. “The water seems to taste sweeter, especially
if you drink right out of the bucket.”
“Pure imagination,” laughed Joe, who was not of a poetical nature.
“Might as well say you would like to eat a beefsteak right out of the
frying pan.”
A hamlet called Bytown had been passed, and now they came to a long
hill, rather steep in places. Halfway up this Joe called a halt.
“We can rest and then walk the remainder of the way,” he observed, and
threw himself down on the sward, with his back against a huge stone.
“Well, you are lazy to-day and no mistake,” said Roy, but he was
compelled to follow his chum’s lead. “We haven’t so everlastingly far
to go that you’ve got to save your wind in this fashion.”
“It’s far enough, considering the hills.”
“Who is this Mr. Franshaw we are to call on?”
“He used to be a builder in Greenpoint. Some years ago he and my father
did quite some work together.”
“Your father said it was important he should get the letter at once.”
“Yes. It’s about some building contract, I believe.” Joe put his hand
back to see if the letter was safe. “Father thinks-- Oh, Roy, it’s
gone!”
“Gone? What?”
“The letter! I’ve dropped it somewhere!”
In the excitement Joe leaped to his feet and gazed about him and down
along the road as far as his eye could reach. The envelope was not in
sight.
“We’ll have to go back,” he said, with a disturbed look on his face.
“Hurry up.”
“You must have dropped it when we got that drink,” said Roy. “I hope
you get it back.”
“I must get it back. I think there was a plan in it which cost the
owner fifty or a hundred dollars,” returned Joe.