SAM SIGNALS FOR A FAST ONE
Tom Pollock was working late that evening at Cummings and Wright’s.
Baseball activities had put him behind with his correspondence and
he was trying to catch up with it. Only the light over his desk was
burning and the rest of the store was dim and empty. As he sealed and
addressed his final letter he glanced at the little tin clock before
him. The hour was just short of nine. In the act of opening a drawer to
get stamps, he paused with outstretched hand and listened alertly. From
down Main Street came the shrill, unmistakable whistle of Amesville’s
single auto-engine. Tom gathered his letters into a pile, seized his
cap, switched out the light, and hurried to the door.
As he stepped onto the sidewalk and turned the key behind him the
whistle at the electric light plant burst on the air and, around the
corner of Alton Street, a few blocks above, a horse-drawn engine sprang
into sight, bell clanging, sparks flying. Tom joined the throng which,
springing seemingly from the very pavement, was hurrying down the main
street. Several blocks below, he could see the auto-engine spouting
red sparks into the air. The Alton Street hitch, straining at their
collars, thudding the pavement with flying hoofs, raced past, followed
in a moment by the hose-cart. Bells were ringing at every street
corner, it seemed, by the time Tom reached the place where the police
were herding the crowd back into the cross streets and where the crew
of the auto-engine were already connecting with the hydrant at the
corner. As the crowd gave back before the commands of the police, Tom
caught sight of several rubber-coated firemen disappearing into the
broad entrance of the Adams Building nearly opposite.
For the next few minutes confusion reigned. The hook-and-ladder
trundled up, more engines reached the scene, the throb of the pumps
began, fuel wagons dashed here and there, parting the crowds, a third
alarm boomed over the city. Ladders rose in air, grew in length,
swayed, and tottered against the tall building which reared its
slender front high above the surrounding roofs. But Amesville’s new
sky-scraper had been built only a few months, while her fire-fighting
apparatus was far older, and it was at once evident that the longest of
the extension ladders would not reach above the sixth story. The crowd
still laughed and joked excitedly. The Adams Building was said to be
fireproof and so the most that could happen would be the burning-out of
an office or two, scarcely serious work for the whole department, they
thought. Of course, it was right to be on the safe side, but a third
alarm seemed rather absurd, and when, almost immediately, four blasts
of the big whistle sounded, many thought the Chief had gone crazy!
So far no sign of fire was to be seen outside the building. Its tier on
tier of dark windows gave no hint of what was going on inside. Not a
light showed anywhere, save when a fireman appeared at the door with a
lantern. But at last the blackness behind the windows paled, took on a
murky-red tinge, and smoke began to billow out at the doorway. A great
gasp of surprise and horror arose from the watchers. Here, then, was no
mere incident to bring an hour’s amusement, but a veritable tragedy!
Further and further away the throngs were pushed and ropes were strung
across the streets. Tom found himself jammed against a doorway on
Bennett Street, his view of a corner of the big building almost cut
off by a broad-shouldered man in front of him. Searching backward
with his foot, he found a step and managed to ascend it, those behind
good-naturedly giving way. From somewhere came the rumour that
Chapinsville and even Bow City had been called on for apparatus.
“It would take two hours to get engines here from Bow City,” said an
excited little man at Tom’s elbow. “Anyhow, they ain’t got enough
pressure to fight that fire. And they ain’t got the ladders.”
“Good thing it didn’t start in the daytime,” said another man. “Lots of
folks would have been burned up, I guess.”
“Don’t reckon there’s anyone in there now, do you?”
“No. They stop the elevators at eight. Besides, there wasn’t a light
showing when I got here, and that was before the auto-engine came.”
“I heard,” said the broad-shouldered man in front of Tom, “that
there’s a man on the tenth floor. Don’t know how true it is. Hope it’s
not. If he’s up there he’ll have to burn--or jump!”
The voice was familiar and Tom leaned forward until he caught a glimpse
of the speaker’s face. It was Mr. George, and Tom spoke to him eagerly.
“Don’t they have life nets, Mr. George?” he asked.
“Hello, Tom! I guess so, but you’ve got a mighty poor chance to strike
a net when you jump from the tenth story. I dare say it’s just a fake.
Folks imagine all sorts of things at a time like this.”
“Do you suppose they can save the building?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know how bad the fire is. One fellow said the whole inside was
burning, but I don’t know how much he knew about it.”
“Wish I could see better,” muttered Tom.
“Well, maybe if you’ll keep close to me we can get a better view,”
replied the other. “I’ve got a badge here somewhere. Come on and keep
hold of me.”
Slowly they wormed their way through the throng that packed the street
solidly from side to side. It seemed a long time before they at last
reached the rope and were challenged by a policeman. Mr. George’s badge
was sufficient, however, and the officer raised the rope. But when Tom
started to follow he was thrust back.
“Here, you, back of the rope there!”
“He’s with me, Lieutenant,” said Mr. George. “It’s all right.”
The officer, who was not even a sergeant, looked doubtful, but Mr.
George’s air of authority, and the compliment, also, perhaps, had the
desired effect and Tom was allowed to pass. Before them the end of the
street lay well-nigh empty, and they hurried along it to the corner of
Main Street. Here engines were pumping, lines of hose stretched like
mammoth serpents across the wet pavements, and rubber-clad fighters
hurried by. About the entrance to the building a knot of privileged
persons gathered and thither Mr. George and Tom went. Leaky hose
drenched them and busy firemen shouldered them. Shouts and commands
sounded above the steady roar of the engines. Two men came through the
doorway from the smoky murk beyond. One was the Chief, the other an
assistant. They dripped with water as they paused where Mayor Kelland
stood.
“Can’t reach him from inside, Mr. Mayor,” said the Chief incisively.
“Everything’s burning around the well. We’ve got to try the
scaling-ladders, I guess. Either that or the net. Tell Cassidy, Jim,
to start up on the front. Hall’s office is on the side of the building
about halfway between front and staircase. You get on the roof over
there and see if you can find him. He hasn’t shown himself yet, and it
may be he got out, but I’m blessed if I see how he could. And no one’s
seen him around, as far as I can learn. Get a move on, Jim!”
Following the others, Tom and his companion hurried around the side of
the building, stumbling over pulsating hose, dodging spouting geysers
from leaky connections. From the further sidewalk the dark wall of
the building arose straight in air, a many-windowed cliff of stone
and brick. Eager and anxious eyes swept as best they could the empty
windows of the tenth floor. But a stone cornice at the eighth story cut
off the view to some extent, while the lights from the street failed
far short of that height.
“He said Mr. Hall,” whispered Tom troubledly. “You don’t suppose it’s
John Hall, do you? Why, he was out at the game this afternoon!”
“Isn’t there something up there at that ninth window from the corner?”
asked Mr. George, peering intently upward. “Have a look, Tom. See
where I mean? Something’s moving. It’s a man! He’s standing on the
window-ledge! Chief, he’s up there! You can see him now!”
Far up a form appeared dimly against the darkness of a window and a
shout arose from the group below, and at the moment something struck
the pavement with a crash.
The Chief darted forward and picked up a tattered sheet of white paper,
from which as he unfolded it broken particles of a glass paper-weight
tinkled. “Lantern here!” he shouted. A man held a light and the Chief
read the message aloud, “We’re cut off, three of us. Find someone to
throw a ball with twine on it from opposite roof. We’ll light matches
to give location. Hurry. Smoke bad, and fire close.
“HALL.”
The Chief grunted. “Throw a ball from opposite roof, eh?” He looked
upward toward the top of the five-story bank building behind them.
“Where’d we get a ball and who’d throw it if we had it?” he demanded
impatiently.
“I’ll find a ball, sir, and twine,” cried Tom. “And--and I think I
could throw it across.”
The Chief turned and viewed him doubtfully an instant. Then, “Go to
it,” he said briskly. “Get your ball and hurry back here. Jerry, you
go with him and get him through. Come back here to the bank. Gus, tell
Murphy to break an entrance there unless the folks have opened up. It’s
a poor chance, but we’ll try it. They’ll never get up there with the
scaling-ladders, and I’d hate to see those fellows jump.”
Tom didn’t hear the last of it, though, for he was already racing
around the corner of Main Street, followed by the fireman. At the rope
he let the latter break a way through the crowd and pressed closely at
his heels. A block away they were free of the throng and Tom sprinted
to the store. A minute later he was inside and pulling boxes from a
shelf. On the way he had thought it all out. He must have balls, a
half-dozen to be on the safe side, and the strongest and lightest silk
fishing line there was in stock, and some brass thumb tacks. The
latter he had to search for, and it seemed that he would never find
them. But he did, at last, and, his pockets bulging with baseballs, he
hurried out again, locked the door, and raced back toward the fire,
the panting fireman at his heels. It seemed that they would never make
their way through the closely jammed crowd, but Tom’s guide used voice
and elbows to good effect, and presently they were again ducking under
the rope.
At the entrance to the building across from the burning sky-scraper
some thirty or forty persons awaited them; the Chief, several
assistants, two men with axes, Mayor Kelland, Mr. George, some
newspaper reporters, and many other privileged ones.
“All right?” demanded the Chief. “Up we go! Not too many, now! Don’t
get in the way!”
Tom panted up the stairs beside Mr. George. “I got half a dozen balls,”
he said, “and some fishing line. I guess you’d better try it. I’m--I’m
tuckered. Are they still there?”
“Yes, the fellow’s still standing on the ledge. The Chief tried to tell
him through his trumpet that we’d sent for balls, but I don’t know
whether he heard. They started up with the scaling-ladders, but had to
give it up. Didn’t have nerve enough, I guess. Here we are, Tom! Up the
ladder and through the small door there.”
In another moment they were out on the roof, their feet scraping over
the pebbles. It was less dark up here than it had been below, for
the stars were bright and shed a soft light upon them as they crept
cautiously in the wake of a swinging lantern toward the edge of the
roof nearest the Adams Building. The wall of that structure loomed
darkly like the side of some giant cliff, but in a moment they picked
out the waiting figure at the window, still high above them. A spark
of yellow light appeared and waved between the wide-spread legs of the
figure on the sill.
“They’re lighting matches,” said the Chief. “All ready there, young
fellow?”
“Just a moment,” panted Tom. He was coiling his fishing line on the
roof in wide loops while Mr. George was fixing an end of it to a ball
with the aid of a thumb tack. From across the dim canyon of the side
street and well up toward the blue-black sky the little yellow lights
flared and burned, and died away. The throng on the roof grew silent
as Mr. George, borrowing the Chief’s trumpet, advanced to the very edge
of the roof.
“Hello, there!” he shouted.
Very faintly above the noise from below came the answering hail.
“Hello!”
“Can you catch this?”
“I think so! Aim for the light!”
“Who are you?”
“Sam Craig!”
Tom uttered a cry of surprise, and----
“Give me the ball, Mr. George,” he said steadily. “I’ll do it, sir!
Tell Sam I’ll throw it, please. And tell him not to reach too far,
because we can try again, sir.”
“Hello, there! Tom Pollock will throw it! Don’t reach for it! We’ve got
plenty of balls! Get that?”
“All right!” came the answer, clearer now. “Tell Tom, ‘One finger’!”