JOE IN TROUBLE
“That’s the strangest thing I ever heard of,” cried Jack, excitedly.
“Don’t believe Joe would have given us the slip.”
They walked to the edge of the gully and looked up and down.
“Hello, Joe, whoop la, hi, hi!”
But no response followed the sound of his voice.
“Jiminy, I don’t understand that!” gasped Aleck.
“What can have become of him?” said Norman, apprehensively, and he
raised his voice with the others in a series of tremendous shouts.
Still there was no response.
“Come on, fellows,” shouted Bob. “Sure as guns, something must have
happened.”
He dashed ahead, with the others following closely at his heels, all a
prey to the most dreadful forebodings.
Far ahead were two figures, but no others were within range of their
vision.
Panting and excited, Jack Lyons and Bob Somers kept well in the lead,
and so the mad race was continued, until they had nearly reached the
spot where Joe was last seen.
Suddenly Bob, who was plunging through a mass of tangled weeds and
grasses, gave a yell which sent a thrill of terror through his
companions’ hearts. They saw him fall forward and wildly clutch a
straggling bush.
“Look out!” he gasped. “Look out!”
The warning cry came just in time. Stretching straight across their
path was a gaping, V-shaped cleft almost hidden from view by vegetation.
With faces drawn and pale, they gathered at the edge and looked below.
Bob Somers, scarcely realizing how he had managed to save himself, was
still the foremost.
A thrill of horror shot through them. There, caught on a projecting
ledge about fifteen feet below, lay the motionless form of Joe Preston,
and still below him was a terrifying, almost vertical drop to the
deepest portion of the ravine.
“Great Scott!” gasped Bob. Then: “Joe, Joe!” he called. “Joe!
Speak--are you badly hurt?”
A moment of dreadful suspense followed.
Joe slowly stirred and passed his hand across his forehead.
“Joe, look out--don’t move an inch!”
Bob spoke with thrilling intensity, and Joe Preston’s awakening
faculties began to grasp the peril of his situation. He huddled close
to the smooth, rocky wall and shut his eyes to hide the depths below.
“Are you hurt, Joe?” inquired Norman Redfern, breathlessly.
“Must have hit my head an awful crack,” answered the boy, weakly. “I
was chasing a butterfly, and all of a sudden felt myself going down--it
was awful.”
“No bones broken, I hope?”
“I don’t think so, but I’ve got a terrible pain in my head.”
“You had a mighty close call, Joe. But for that ledge----”
Norman glanced gravely at his companions, and they nodded.
“Whew! Makes me shiver to think of it,” breathed Bob, with a shrug of
his broad shoulders.
Then they began to discuss the means of bringing Joe to the top.
“If we only had a rope,” sighed Aleck Hunt.
“But we haven’t,” said Jack, “and there’s no use talking about it.”
“Then what can we do?”
“Form a human chain. Our crowd is big enough. Beside, those two men
coming along will most likely give us a hand. Feeling better, Joe?”
“Yes! But, for goodness’ sake, fellows, hurry up. This ledge seems
awfully small, and my head is dizzy.”
“Courage, Joe, old boy, we’ll have you up in a jiffy.”
By this time the two men were close at hand, and divining that
something was amiss, hurried forward. One was rather tall, with sandy
hair and a pointed beard, while the other, shorter and not quite so
stout, had intensely black hair and mustache.
“Hello, what’s this?” exclaimed the former. Then, as his eyes rested
on the dangerous cleft and Joe Preston on the ledge, he gave a low
whistle of astonishment.
“H’m, your friend’s in trouble, sure enough. How did it happen?”
Jack briefly explained.
“Certainly we’ll help you--no doubt about that. But can you stand it
down there for about a second, my boy?”
He hastily unstrung a small camera, sighted it, a click sounded, and
Joe had been snapped.
“Ought to make a remarkable picture,” observed the man. “Now to work.”
A difficult and dangerous task was before the boys, but none faltered.
Bob’s lips were drawn tightly together.
“I’ll go first,” he announced, briefly. “My muscles are pretty strong.
Ready! Grab my legs, Jack, and hold on tight.”
Without another word, Bob threw himself flat and worked his way slowly
over to the edge. Jack hung to him with all his strength, and he, in
turn, was held tightly by another. And thus the dangling human chain
hung downward, and Bob’s waving arms approached the helpless prisoner.
Three feet--two feet--one foot--for an instant Bob closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, Joe Preston was within reach.
“Quick, Joe,” he gasped. “Quick!”
But as Joe slowly raised himself to an upright position, he found that
his strength was practically gone.
“I could never hold on, Bob,” he said, “never!”
“Don’t have to. Give me your wrists.”
Bob Somers’ sinewy hands closed around them with a grip that could not
fail.
“Pull up, fellows,” he yelled.
The tug began. Their knowledge of the danger seemed to give them double
strength. Straining every muscle, never daring to pause for an instant,
the boys and men worked silently, while white-faced Joe Preston swung
over the chasm.
Jack Lyons felt himself being dragged to safety. His face was purple;
his joints seemed to fairly crack, but, with a determination that
increased as the moments slipped by, he held on.
How long it seemed! But finally the burden was taken from him by
willing hands, and exhausted Jack Lyons lay back on the turf. Then
Bob Somers was drawn slowly over the edge, and, at length, other hands
seized Joe Preston’s wrists. One final tug, and the boy was safe.
For several moments, not a word was spoken. Joy and an intense feeling
of relief filled their hearts, making them forget aching bones and sore
flesh.
Then Joe spoke up.
“I’ll never forget this, fellows,” he said quietly, “never!”
“And I guess none of the rest will, either,” observed one of the
strangers, dryly. “It was a narrow shave, my lad. How do you feel--hurt
yourself much?”
“A bit bruised, and my head aches; that’s all. That ledge seems to
have been put there for my especial benefit, eh, Jack?” and Joe smiled
rather weakly.
The boys thanked the strangers heartily for their assistance. Norman
Redfern was interested when he learned that the two were on their way
to visit his artist friend.
“Yes, we three,” the man indicated his dark-haired companion, “knew
each other in Paris. I’m from the South, spending a month or two here,
and want to renew old friendships.”
“You are artists, then?” inquired Redfern.
The others nodded.
“But sometimes I amuse myself with the camera,” said one.
“Say--you ought to take one of our house-boat,” put in Joe, eagerly.
“That will make up for the picture you got of me.”
“House-boat?”
Then explanations followed, and before they parted the strangers
promised to visit the “Gray Gull” that afternoon.
Joe Preston had been pretty badly shaken up, and, as his head still
ached, it was decided to return.
“Makes me feel like a number one dunce, too,” he remarked, sheepishly.
“Guess maybe I deserved it for chasing butterflies. Isn’t that so,
Redfern?”
“Well, hardly,” responded the ex-tutor. “I was glad to note that none
of you made any effort to wantonly hurt the little creatures. That
I would consider indefensible; though some boys are inclined to be
thoughtless about such matters.”
“Never saw such a trap in my life,” said Bob. “Who would ever expect to
find such a place, all overgrown with weeds?”
“Oh, you fellows can’t excuse yourselves that way,” said Fred Winter,
with a rather forced laugh. “If the crowd stood in need of a frightful
scare we got it, all right.”
“You seem to be taking the lesson to heart,” said Norman Redfern. “That
is the best course. I never was more thankful in my life. If this place
had been like one I know of a few miles from here, nothing could have
saved you, Joe.”
“What is it like?” faltered the boy.
“A narrow, half-hidden cleft running in from the face of the Palisades.
There is a clear drop of several hundred feet.”
The boys felt a shiver run through them.
“That shows how well it is to be careful,” added Redfern.
By easy stages they covered the distance back to the zigzag road; and
upon reaching Redfern’s shack Joe was able to assure them all that he
felt much better.
“Ready to leave with us to-morrow morning, eh, Norman?” inquired Jack,
presently.
“But won’t it crowd you too much?”
“Not at all; there’s room for two or three more--six the diameter of
Tom.”
“Yes; I have no very particular engagements to keep me. I’ll be glad of
a change--was getting kind of rusty.”
“I declare, I most forgot poor young Confuse-us,” remarked Jack. “He
must be a bit hungry by this time. Who wants to go over to the boat?”
“Guess I will,” answered Fred, closing the book.
“I’m with you,” put in Joe.
Then the others decided to join.
So off they started, in lively spirits again, for Joe declared that he
now felt no worse than if he had just come out of an ordinary football
scrimmage.
“Fellows,” said Aleck, suddenly, “I never finished that story I was
going to tell you. Listen--it’s a bully one.”
“Get it off your mind--do,” snickered Joe.
“I’m going to. Well, it’s about Joe Archer, who played short-stop on
our team. He was down on Battery Park the other day, when----”
“Thunderation!” broke in Bob, suddenly. “Look at that, fellows!”
“What’s up?” asked Joe.
“Don’t you see----”
And Joe saw. Two figures were reclining in indolent ease on the deck
of the house-boat, and the first glance showed the boys that they were
unprepossessing specimens of humanity.