CATCHER CRAIG
Tom smiled a bit tremulously as he heard Sam’s plucky answer. “One
finger, eh?” he thought. Well, it couldn’t be that, for in their signal
code one finger meant a fast ball, and it was beyond Tom’s or anyone
else’s power to throw a fast ball at the angle confronting him. Judging
the distance as best he might, his gaze on the tiny light that glowed
five stories above him, he stepped slowly backward across the roof.
Finally he stopped.
“How far is it, do you think?” he asked Mr. George.
“About ninety feet, I’d say,” was the answer.
“Just the distance between bases,” muttered Tom. “I’ll try to get it to
him coming down, I guess.”
“I wouldn’t, Tom. Sam’s used to catching them straight. Sock it right
at him. If he can see it he’ll get it.”
“Well,” answered Tom doubtfully. He fixed his fingers around the ball,
saw that the twine ran unentangled to the coil, which Mr. George had
laid beside him, and took a long breath. Now that the moment had come
he was losing his nerve, or so it seemed to him. The others drew aside
in silence, only a whisper disturbing the stillness up there, although
from below came the throb of the busy engines, the murmur of the
throngs, the shrill signalling of an engine asking for fuel. Mr. George
raised the trumpet to his mouth again.
“All ready, Sam! Get it, boy!”
There was a faint answer, drowned by the quick scraping of Tom’s
shoes on the loose gravel, and off sped the ball, grey-white in the
half-darkness, up and away toward the dimly illumined window and the
motionless form poised there. There was a quick gasp from the thrower
as he recovered. Then a moment of anxious silence broken by a murmur of
disappointment. The ball had gone three feet wide of the window and,
although Sam had been seen to lean dangerously to the right, he had
failed to touch it, and it had rebounded from the wall and fallen to
the street. Eager hands found the line and began to pull it back over
the edge of the roof.
“Pretty near,” said Mr. George cheerfully. “A little more to the left
next time, Tom. You’ve got the distance all right.”
“My foot slipped on the gravel,” panted Tom. “He’s saying something,
isn’t he?”
The Chief commanded silence and from across the darkness came Sam’s
voice untroubledly, “Three feet further to the left, Tom! I almost had
it! Make it be good! Right over now in the groove!”
“Plucky young fellow,” growled the Chief. “Got that ball yet?”
“It came off,” answered someone. “Here’s the cord.”
Mr. George quickly stripped the tin-foil from another clean, white
ball, looped the end of the cord once more and once more pushed the
thumb tack into the tough leather with a grunt. “There you are, Tom,”
he said. “Here’s luck!”
“I guess you’ll have to hurry,” said a newspaper man. “Looks as if the
fire was in there now, don’t it?”
It did, for the window, dark before, now shone dull red and Sam’s form
was silhouetted plainly against it. Tom seized the ball, measured his
distance again, silently prayed for success, stepped forward, and
threw. A breathless silence then. The figure on the ledge settled back.
The ball was lost in the shadow of the tall building. Still those on
the roof waited and still no sound came, until, suddenly, faintly,
there was a hail from above.
“Got it! Tie on your rope!”
* * * * *
It was nearly a fortnight later. Sam, returning at dusk along Main
Street from the ball field after an afternoon of fall practice, paused
in front of Cummings and Wright’s and, one hand thoughtfully fingering
the change in his pocket, viewed admiringly the array of football goods
displayed in one big window. He had more than half promised the captain
of the high school eleven to try for the team as soon as baseball was
shelved for the winter. If he did, he reflected, he’d have to spend
quite a little money for togs, and, now that he was firmly resolved
to go to college next year, he could ill afford to part with any
of his slender horde. Ruminating, he turned his gaze up the street,
along which the lights were already beginning to flash. Against the
darkening sky the smoke-blackened shell of the Adams Building towered
empty and forlorn. A frown creased Sam’s forehead as his eyes rested on
the tall structure with its broken windows and grimy walls. He had not
yet got so he could recall that experience without a sudden sickening
sensation at his heart. He sometimes wondered if he would ever be able
to forget that awful quarter of an hour up there, the anxious period
when, held firmly by Mr. Hall and Mr. York, he had waited there on the
outer ledge and hoped against hope that Tom’s aim would be true, or the
hazardous descent by the rope with the flames almost licking at their
heels. They had made him go first, when it had seemed that there was
scarce time for all to escape. He remembered how quietly and calmly
Mr. Hall had instructed him about wrapping the rope about his leg and
lowering himself down, and how Mr. York had assured him that if he went
slowly and kept his head he would reach the ground safely. Well, it
was something to have gone through such a test with men like those,
he reflected, and now that it was over--his eyes narrowed as he gazed
thoughtfully up the busy street--well, now that it was all over he was
almost glad that it had happened. Somehow, life had seemed finer and
bigger since that night!
A tapping on the broad pane beside him caused him to look around. At
the back of the window Tom Pollock was knocking on the glass with a
hockey stick and beckoning him inside. Sam smiled faintly, nodded, and
entered. The store held few customers, and none on the sporting goods
side. Tom closed the panel at the back of the window and turned with a
smile.
“Ah,” he said, “Mr. Craig, I believe! Champion ten-story catcher of the
Sky-scraper League! What were you doing out there, Sam? Going to sleep?”
“Just--just thinking,” replied Sam soberly.
“You want to break yourself of that,” responded Tom, with a warning
shake of his head. “It’ll get to be a habit. What’s new? How did
practice go? Sorry I had to cut to-day.”
“Pretty fair, I think. I guess I’ll have to call it off soon. A lot
of the fellows are trying for the football team. Sidney left to-day;
Buster, too.”
“Yes, you couldn’t keep Sid away from a pigskin if you tied him. By the
way, Mr. Hall was in here about an hour ago asking for you. Said I was
to tell you to go around to the club this evening. Wants to see you
about something. I think he said he’d had a letter from Mr. York.”
Sam nodded. “Yes, I guess I know what it is,” he said. “I had a letter
from Mr. York this morning; or, rather, a note. He--he’s got the
contract, Tom.”
“For the new Adams Building? That’s good. Hope they’ll make it
fireproof this time. How is he?”
“All right, I guess. He didn’t say. He didn’t write much; only five or
six lines. He said his firm had got the contract and that--that he’d
have a job for me next month.”
“Really? Bully for you, Sam! Say, that’s fine! I’m awfully glad. What
are you going to do--stand on the top of the building and catch beams
and things?”
“N-no, I guess it will be something about the office. I don’t know yet.
But I’m mighty glad because I guess I’ll be able to make enough to
start college next fall.”
“Pshaw, you won’t need money, Sam! Why, I’ll bet there isn’t a college
in the country that wouldn’t be tickled to get as celebrated a chap as
you! You know, old man, you’re a bit of a hero. Mr. Hall says you had a
whole page to yourself in one of the New York papers on Sunday.”
“I wish they wouldn’t,” said Sam. Then a twinkle danced in his eyes.
“Anyway, they had you in it, too, I’ll bet.”
“Oh, yes, but I wasn’t important. He said there was a fine picture of
you standing on a window-ledge with mask and mitt and leg guards! I
must get that paper and see it.” And Tom chuckled.
Sam smiled a little over the idea of the mask and mitt. Then, soberly,
he said: “You were the real hero of that stunt, Tom. If you hadn’t
thrown that ball just right the time you did--well, you wouldn’t have
had many more tries!”
“No, that’s a fact,” agreed the other gravely. “It wasn’t any time to
get our signals mixed, was it, Sam?”
“No, and you--you certainly were fine, Tom. I don’t know whether I
ever exactly told you how--how awfully grateful----”
“Don’t mention it!” exclaimed Tom hurriedly. Then, with a grin, “It was
a pleasure, sir, I assure you,” he said gaily. “I always esteem it a
great honour to pitch to Catcher Craig.”
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
--Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
--Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
follow the text that they illustrate.
--Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.