MANY PERILS
The person who leaped upon the back of the car as it went speeding out of
Grand Avenue, who left it only as it arrived at the abandoned farmyard,
and who now found himself in the mammoth hayloft of that barn, was none
other than the new bus boy of the Seventy Club.
You may have guessed that this person was not a boy, but a girl, and that
her name was Joyce Mills. This is true.
The thought of going to Naperville, of lolling about in white duck skirts
on summer porches or playing tennis with well-to-do and self satisfied
suburbanites had been abhorrent to her. The love of adventure was in her
blood.
More than that; she had come to this city with the expectation of finding
her father in jail. Instead, thanks to a boy, a young detective, and a
sergeant of the force, she had found him free and employed as he should
be at the task for which God had created him. She wanted above everything
else to prove herself of service to those who had brought so much joy
into her life. She wished to assist in the capture of Jimmie McGowan and
his gang.
This was not the first time she had masqueraded as a boy. More than once,
while living in the Sicilian quarters of New York, she had dyed her face
brown, donned trousers and haunted dark places of crime, as a newsboy or
a city waif.
Having secured the secret card, she had donned her disguise and had
succeeded in getting herself employed at the Seventy Club.
She had been able to shadow the gang. She had witnessed the capture of
the crook, Jimmie McGowan, had learned of the intended reprisal, had
ridden to the shack on the back of the gangster's car, and had seen them
spying there.
There had been no opportunity for warning Johnny. She had ridden on the
car to this deserted spot in the hope that here she might be of some
service.
Her best course at present appeared to be that of leaving the barn and
going for help.
But how was this to be effected? There appeared to be but two entrances
to the hayloft: the trapdoor which led to the room now occupied by the
gangsters, and a large one very high up, through which in days of farming
the hay had been drawn. Both of these were too dangerous. The way seemed
blocked.
As her eyes became accustomed to the light, however, she saw a ladder
leading to the very peak of the barn. It ran up one end, and was only a
dozen paces from the spot where she stood.
The floor was strewn with chaff. Her light footsteps, as she moved toward
the ladder, made no sound.
With one hand on the first round of the ladder, she paused to remove her
shoes and tie them about her neck.
Nimble as a squirrel, she darted up the ladder to the very peak of the
barn. A small opening there gave her a view of the overgrown pasture that
lay dizzy depths below.
The moon was out. She could distinguish every detail of the scene beneath
her. Beyond the narrow pasture was a field of wheat in the shocks. These
shocks cast dark shadows.
"Like so many tombstones in a cemetery," she told herself with a shudder.
She measured the distance to the ground, and then shook as with a chill.
"No use," she told herself. "I'm trapped."
Turning about, she tried to peer into the dark depths of the hayloft.
As she did so, she became conscious of a beam that lay directly before
her. This beam, which ran the length of the barn, was suspended by iron
bars at a distance of two feet from the peak. It formed a track along
which, in haying time, a car carried great bundles of loose hay to all
parts of the loft.
As she looked she saw that stray moonbeams lighted this track at regular
intervals.
"Cupolas," she told herself.
She had noted that curious little structures, perfect little barns, some
four feet square and six feet high, had been placed along the ridge of
the barn. These were in truth cupolas. Their sides were made of slanting
slats. These let in air, and kept out rain. They were for the purpose of
ventilation. New made hay needs air.
She studied this beam with dawning hope.
"If I could climb out over that beam," she told herself, "I could swing
up into the first cupola. I might then be able to reach the roof and at
last the ground."
It was uncertain, but worth the risk.
Gripping the beam with both her strong hands, she let go her feet and,
swinging in midair, made her way hand over hand along the beam until she
was beneath the cupola.
Now for swinging up. This seemed easy. It was difficult. Was it
impossible? Twice she swung her legs up. Twice she failed.
Her arms were tiring. If she failed again could she make her way back to
the ladder? She doubted it. And to fall!
One last desperate endeavor. A toe caught. She swung the other foot over.
She clung there a moment. Then, after executing a revolving motion, she
lay panting atop the beam, beneath the cupola.
Ah! How sweet life was! How cool the air from the cupola that fanned her
cheek! How good it all was!
But there remained much to be done. She roused herself; dragged herself
to her knees, then stood erect in the cupola.
At once there came a wild and noisy whirring of wings. Pigeons were
sleeping there.
She caught her breath. Would the gangsters hear? Would they find her? She
wore the bus boy's brown uniform. They would understand. She would never
return alive. And life was so sweet!
The pigeons were gone. There came no other sound. If the gangsters had
heard they had thought nothing of it. Who would?
The slats of the cupola fitted loosely into grooves. She had only to lift
them out. She took out five and laid them down without a sound. Then she
crept out into the moonlight.
One look told her that at the end farthest from her, the barn ended in a
lean-to. The eaves of this lean-to reached within ten feet of the ground.
Close by these eaves was an old straw pile.
"What could be sweeter?" She straddled the ridge of the roof, then
hunched herself along until she was at the end. There, by clinging to the
edge, she let herself down to the roof of the lean-to. Down the lean-to
roof she glided. Then, with a spring, she landed on the straw pile.
She slipped, did a somersault, then tumbled into a patch of weeds.
She was just picking herself up from this patch of weeds when she caught
a slight sound to her right. She looked. There was a man, a guard. He had
turned. He was looking her way. Without doubt he had heard a sound as she
struck the straw pile. But had he seen her?
Her heart pounded against her ribs as she crept deeper into the mass of
protecting weeds.