JUST IN TIME
Bill Smith, about that same time, was wondering the same thing. He had
dozed off after his captors had left him, but, with the first glint of
morning sun into the room where he was a prisoner he had awakened. He
was still bound.
“Well, this is pretty punk!” he exclaimed. “To think that they got
ahead of me this way! I wonder where I am, anyhow? And I wonder how I
can get away, and back—Great muskmelons! If I don’t show up at the
game—”
The thought was too much for Bill. He resolved on bold tactics.
Considering that his promise not to make an outcry ended with the
leaving of his captors, he raised his voice in a shout.
“Help! Come here, somebody! Let me out! Police!”
Bill didn’t particularly want the police, for he knew that his
captivity was the result of some school prank, and the boys never
called on the officers of the law if they could help it. But “Police!”
was an easy word to say, and it carried well. Therefore the captive
yelled it again and again.
But there was no answer to his cries, and after straining his throat
until it ached, the pitcher decided that he had better save his breath
and try other means to escape.
“First to see if I can’t get rid of some of these ropes on my arms and
legs,” he murmured. He tugged and strained at them, after wiggling to
a sitting position, but the knots had been made with care, and held.
Bill tried to pull his hands from the loops but it was useless, and his
feet were equally secure. He could not gnaw through the ropes as he had
sometimes read of prisoners doing, for his hands were tied behind his
back.
“I certainly am up against it,” he said aloud. Then, for the first
time, he took note of his prison. He was in a vacant room, evidently
in some old fashioned house, to judge by the character of the woodwork
and the wall paper. There were two windows, and a door, the latter
apparently quite solid.
“Let’s have a look outside,” suggested Bill to himself. He struggled to
his feet, and, by a series of hops, gained the windows. He was in the
third story of a house, set in the midst of a neglected garden, and the
scene that met the lad’s gaze was unfamiliar to him.
“I might be a hundred miles from nowhere, for all I can tell,” he
concluded dubiously. “Well, now for a try at the door.”
Hopping over to the portal Bill turned around with his back to it, and
managed to reach the knob with his hands. It turned, but the door was
locked.
“Nothing doing there!” exclaimed the captive. “Well, here’s for
some more noise.” He yelled and shouted at the top of his voice,
accompanying himself by beating on the door with his bound fists.
Silence was his only answer.
Once more Bill hopped to the window. He looked out, hoping he might see
some one to whom he could appeal. Then, as he gazed helplessly out, he
noted a nail driven into one side of the casement. At once a plan came
into his mind.
“If I can rub the rope that binds my hands, up and down over the head
of that nail, I may fray the ropes enough to break them,” he remarked
aloud, for it made it seem less lonesome to speak thus. “Once I get my
hands loose—” Bill did not finish, but he had great hopes of what he
could then do.
He began at once with the rusty nail as a knife. It was hard work, and
several times his hands slipped and his wrists were scratched, but he
kept at it, and finally found that the cords were giving way. He worked
faster, and then, with a sudden strain he found his arms free. Then it
was an easy matter to loosen his feet, and he stood up unbound.
“Now for a try at that door!” exclaimed the lad, and after giving the
knob a vigorous turn, and vainly pulling on the portal he began to kick
it violently.
He was engaged in this, at the same time yelling and demanding to be
released, when the door suddenly opened. So suddenly in fact that
Bill toppled outward with it, and was caught in the arms of a big
man who entered quickly, carrying the captive backward with him, and
immediately locking the portal again.
Surprise bereft the lad of speech for a moment, and the man, after
gazing at him, and noting the ropes on the floor, remarked:
“Well, you got rid of ’em yourself, I see. If you’d have waited a
little longer I’d have taken ’em off. I’m a little late getting here
with your breakfast.”
“Breakfast!” gasped Bill. “You’d have taken off the ropes! Say, what
kind of a game am I up against, anyhow?”
“Oh, I guess it’s all right,” said the man easily.
“Well it isn’t all right,” declared Bill. “If you don’t let me out of
here right away there’s going to be the biggest row you ever saw,” and,
as if in support of his assertion the pitcher rushed over and began
kicking on the door again.
“Hum! Them fellers was right,” murmured the man seemingly not a bit
disturbed by what Bill was doing.
“What fellows?” demanded the pitcher, pausing in his attack.
“The ones what brought you here. They said you’d cut up rough, and make
a lot of fuss, an’ by gum, they was right! I guess you sure enough do
need a straight-jacket.”
“A straight-jacket!” gasped poor Bill. “Say, for the love of cats, tell
me what I’m up against; won’t you?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” was the calm reply. “I was told to humor
you until the keeper come, an’ I’m doin’ it. What would you like for
breakfast?”
“I don’t want any—let me out!” pleaded Bill. He was beginning to see
the joke now.
“I don’t dast,” replied the man. “The fellers what brung you here
said you was dangerous at times, an’ I might be held responsible. They
fetched you here in an automobile, an’ arranged with me to leave you
in this vacant house of mine until they could come again, with keepers
from the lunatic asylum, to take you away. I’m expectin’ ’em every
minute, but they said I was to untie you by daylight, an’ feed you, as
you was less violent when it wasn’t dark.”
“Say, look here!” cried Bill. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
“I’m sure of it,” was the answer. “At least, no, I ain’t neither. There
I clean forgot to say what them fellers told me to. No you ain’t crazy.
I am, an’ everybody else is, but you’re sane. That’s what they said
I was to tell you, if you asked me that question. All crazy persons
thinks they are sane,” he went on in explanation. “You’re sane.”
“But look here!” pleaded the captive. “Of course I’m sane. I’m a
student at Westfield, and the fellows who brought me are either
students from there, or from some other school, playing a joke on me.
Now let me go!”
The man shook his head.
“They told me you’d say that, too,” he said. “I can’t let you go. I
promised to keep you here until the keepers came, an’ I’m goin’ to
do it. Now take it easy and you’ll be all right. I’ll bring you some
breakfast. You look hungry.”
“I am, but say—” Then the hopelessness of appealing any further to the
man came forcibly to Bill, and he was silent.
“That’s better,” announced the man, preparing to unlock the door again.
“I live over here a little way. This house belongs to me, but it’s been
vacant some time, so you can yell and holler all you please—no one
will hear you. I’ll go get you some victuals. Is there anything special
you’d like? My wife is a good cook.”
“Oh, bring anything,” said poor Bill. He knew that he would have to eat
if he was to keep up his strength, for he had determined to try to
escape by the windows as soon as he was left alone again. He had a wild
idea of making a rush when the farmer opened the door, but a look at
the bulky frame of the man made him change his mind.
The food was good and Bill ate a hearty meal. Then he was left alone
again, the farmer, on locking the door, saying that he expected the
keepers any moment. It was evident that he believed the stories the
captors of Bill had told him.
Once he was alone, and when a look from the windows had assured him
that he was not being watched, Bill began to put into operation his
plan of getting away.
He hoped that the ropes which had bound him would enable him to make
his way down them out of the window, but on tying the pieces together
he discovered that they were not long enough.
“Up against it!” exclaimed the lad, until, looking more carefully out
of the end casement he discovered that a stout lightning rod ran near
it, down the side of the house.
“That’s just the cheese, if it will hold me,” murmured the lad. “I’m
going to try it anyhow.”
He crawled out on the window sill, tested the rod as best he could, and
then swung himself down it. To his joy it held, and in a few seconds he
was safe on the ground.
“Now to find out where I am, and streak it for school and the game!” he
murmured, looking around to see that the farmer was not in sight. He
got his bearings and was soon out on a dusty highway. He ran for some
distance until a turn in the road hid the house of his captivity from
him, and then slowed down to a walk.
The surroundings were still unfamiliar to him, but meeting a man
driving a carriage he learned that he was near the village of
Belleville, about twenty miles from Westfield.
“And it’s coming on noon, I haven’t half enough to buy a railroad
ticket, and the game is called at two o’clock!” groaned Bill. “I
certainly am up against it good and hard!”
The man whom he had accosted was going in the wrong direction, or he
would have given the lad a lift. However, he did consent to drive him
to the railroad station.
“I’ll see if I can’t give the agent a hard-luck story, and have him
trust me for a ticket,” thought the pitcher.
But the station agent proved to be a hard-featured man, who had once
lost a dollar by lending it to a young lady who told him a pathetic
story, and he turned a deaf ear to Bill’s pleading.
“No money no ticket,” he declared.
“But look here,” gasped Bill. “Some fellows, either at my school, or
from Tuckerton, played a joke on me last night—kidnapped me. I’m to
pitch in the championship Freshman baseball game at two o’clock this
afternoon, and I’ve just _got_ to be there. I’ll pay you back if you
trust me for a ticket. Or say, you can ship me as express, C. O. D. and
the boys will pay the charges at Westfield.”
“Live stock has to travel in cattle cars, not as express,” answered the
agent with a grim smile. “Besides I don’t believe in baseball anyhow.
Some boys was battin’ a hall once, an’ they busted one of the windows
in this ticket office. I had to pay for it, too! I ain’t got no manner
of likin’ for baseball.”
Bill saw that it was no use in pleading, and turned away. With despair
in his heart he noted that it was nearly one o’clock. He might as well
give up. Already the players were beginning to get ready for the game.
In fancy he could hear the words of wonder at his absence from the
diamond.
“They may think I threw the game,” thought Bill, and then he remembered
that his brothers and Whistle-Breeches had seen him captured, and would
tell the story.
“They’d come to the rescue if they only knew where to come, too,”
thought Bill gloomily.
The pitcher was in desperate straits. A search through his pockets
disclosed the fact that he had nothing to pawn on which to raise money,
even if there had been a pawn shop in the village. He was just giving
up, deciding to walk to Westfield, hoping to arrive before dark, when,
as he left the station he nearly collided with a pretty girl, who was
just entering, having alighted from a trim little motor car, that was
still puffing outside.
“I beg your pardon,” mumbled Bill.
“Oh!” exclaimed the girl. “I—why it’s Mr. Smith!” she cried, holding
out her hand. “I’m glad to meet you again. But why aren’t you over at
school at the big game? I’m on my way there.”
For a moment you could have knocked Bill down with the wind from a
slow ball, as he afterward expressed it. He looked at the girl, and
recognized her as Miss Ruth Morton, to whom he had been introduced by
Bob Chapin at one of the school games.
“Miss Morton!” he murmured. “I—Oh, if you’re going to Westfield will
you take me? I’m marooned!”
Then, rapidly, he blurted out the whole story of his capture and his
inability to get back.
“Take you! Of course I’ll take you!” exclaimed Miss Morton. “I have to
stop for a girl friend, who is going to the game with me, but there’ll
be plenty of room for you.”
“I’ll ride on the mud guard or hang on back!” exclaimed Bill, a gleam
of hope lighting his woe-begone countenance. “Only I want to beat
Tuckerton!”
“And I want you to, even if a—a friend of mine goes there. I think it
was an awfully mean trick they played on you.”
“Oh, I’m not _sure_ any Tuckerton fellows did it,” said Bill, who
wanted to play fair. “It may have been some of the Westfield crowd,”
but he had his own opinion.
Miss Morton, who had come to the station to inquire about some express
package, hurried out to her car, followed by Bill. He offered to run it
for her, but she was not a little proud of her own ability to drive.
“We’ve got to make time,” suggested the pitcher nervously.
“I can do it,” the girl assured him, and, once she had thrown in the
third gear, the pitcher had no reason to complain of lack of speed.
Miss Morton’s girl friend—Miss Hazel Dunning—was taken aboard and
then, with Bill sitting on the floor in front, and resting his feet on
the mud-guard step, for the machine was only a runabout, the trip to
Westfield was begun.
Back on the school diamond there was an anxious throng of students and
players. The news of Bill’s kidnapping was known all over, and while
there was despair in the ranks of the Westfield Freshmen and their
supporters, there was ill-concealed joy among the Tuckerton nine and
their adherents.
“Those fellows know where Bill is,” declared Cap.
“But we don’t dare accuse them,” agreed Pete.
“And we’ll lose the game,” went on Armitage dubiously.
Bill never forgot his trip with Miss Morton. She was a daring driver,
for a girl, and once or twice took chances that made even the
nerve-hardened pitcher wince. But with a merry laugh she sped on, after
cutting in ahead of a load of hay, on a narrow bridge.
Once there was a hail from a speed-watching constable but the girl kept
on.
“There’s oil on my number, and I never expect to come this way again,”
she declared recklessly.
“If only we don’t get a blow-out!” murmured Miss Dunning.
“Don’t you dare suggest such a thing, Hazel!” cried Miss Morton.
She turned on more speed. It lacked five minutes to two, and Bill knew
the game would be called on the dot. They were two miles away, and
could hardly get there on time, but the pitcher consoled himself with
the reflection that at least he could take part after the first inning.
“Are we going to make it?” asked Miss Dunning.
“We’ve _got_ to!” declared Miss Morton, as she swung around in front
of a farm wagon, thereby causing the grizzled driver symptoms of heart
failure.
Bill could hear the shouts on the diamond now. He was in a fever of
excitement, and stood up to catch a first glimpse of the field. Miss
Morton, with her lips set firmly around her pretty mouth grasped the
steering wheel more rigidly and drove on. Toward the diamond she
turned. There was another cheer from the crowd, but Bill could not see
what was going on, and feared the game had started. There came a break
in the throng and he had a glimpse of the field. What he saw reassured
him.
“I’m just in time!” he gasped. “They’re only practicing!”
He leaped out as the girl brought the car to a sudden stop with both
brakes grinding and screeching.
“See you later! A thousand thanks—never could have done it but for
you, Miss Morton!” burst out Bill as he ran over the grass. “I’ll never
forget it.”
“Me either,” murmured the girl. “I never drove so fast before in all my
life, but I wasn’t going to tell him so,” she confided to her chum, as
they left the car and walked toward the grand stand.