THE ESCAPE
The scratching sound continued, and then Joe could hear the sound
of the lock being stealthily shot back. But why should his captors
exercise such caution? There was dead silence for a few seconds, and
then the door swung slowly open, letting in a dim, sickly light from
the cellar beyond.
This slow approach of some unseen person was beginning to get on Joe’s
nerves, and he was about to utter a challenge when a sibilant whisper
warned him to be quiet.
The door was now open a foot or so, and a dark figure edged itself into
the room. Joe stood tense, waiting for the attack that he thought was
coming.
But no attack came. Instead, a tiny shaft of light, reflected from a
flashlight in the newcomer’s hand, lit the place dimly. By its rays Joe
recognized the man who had said that he used to be a ball player and
who had seemed to take an interest in him.
“Don’t make a sound, Matson,” he warned. “If they catch me, there’ll be
two of us in a desperate plight to-night, instead of one. The big chief
has sworn to get you to-night, and he’d just as soon knock me out at
the same time.”
“What has he got against you?” asked Joe curiously.
“Nothing yet. But he would have if he knew I was helping you escape.”
“Escape!” echoed Joe, hardly willing to believe his ears. “Do you
really mean that you’re going to help me get away from this place?”
“That’s what,” averred the other. “I’m taking my life in my hands to do
it, but I couldn’t stand by and let them injure――or worse――a game ball
player like you. I’ve seen you pitch more than once, and you’re too
good to have a fate like that. I told you I used to be a ball player
myself, before drink put me down and out. But we can’t waste time
talking here. Follow me, and I’ll see if I can get you out.”
He led Joe through the cellar until they reached the stairs leading to
the first floor. They had started to ascend when the guide stopped,
and Joe could hear voices from above. Joe recognized the voice of the
leader, raised in angry protest.
“I’m not going to argue with you any more now,” he shouted. “The bunch
will be at Bill Davendorp’s to-night, and we’ll hash out the whole
thing then and make our plans. If that doesn’t suit you, I can’t help
it.”
Joe could not hear what the other man said, but he apparently spoke
soothingly, and their voices dropped to an indistinguishable monotone.
“I’ll have to get you out another way,” whispered Joe’s guide.
He noiselessly descended the steps to the cellar, with Joe at his
heels. They had not gone far when Joe’s guide stopped at a stout door
set in the cellar wall and fitted a key into the lock. Cautiously he
swung the door open and then for a full minute stood listening intently.
In the silence Joe could hear the wash and lap of water at no great
distance, and the thought flashed across his mind that perhaps this man
was leading him into some death trap. But he was totally in the power
of the man, who had only to shout to bring members of the gang to his
assistance. Joe resolved to follow him unhesitatingly, since, after
all, it seemed his only chance.
After listening for some time, the ex-ball player apparently decided
that the way was clear, for he motioned to Joe to follow him. They
entered the black tunnel, for such it seemed to be, and went slowly
forward, the path being dimly lighted by the little flashlight. The
walls were wet and moldy, and there was hardly room for one man to
pass along. Ever as they walked the splash and gurgle of running water
came nearer, until, after rounding a corner, Joe saw the cause.
The tunnel ended at the river, only a foot or two above the high water
mark. The tide was at flow, and the waters of the mighty Hudson raced
and swirled past, moaning and gurgling about the piles of an old dock
under which the tunnel had its exit. Joe could not repress a shudder as
he gazed at the green water lapping past almost under his feet, for he
reflected that possibly he had been close to an ignominious death in
its cold depths.
“There are spikes driven into the far side of that pile,” said Joe’s
rescuer, indicating a slippery green post to the right of the tunnel.
“When you get to the top you’ll find a trap door that will let you out
on the dock. From there you can easily enough reach the street. Then
see how fast you can get away from this neighborhood. And one more
thing: Take a little advice and don’t go around alone much for the rest
of the baseball season.”
Joe extended his hand.
“I don’t even know your name,” he said, “but I know you’re a real man
in spite of the set you’re running with. Why don’t you shake them and
play the game on the level? If I can ever help you with cash or in
any other way, all you’ll ever have to do is to say so. I owe my whole
future to you.”
The other took the extended hand.
“Your dope sounds good, kid, and maybe I’ll do it,” he said. “But don’t
think about me any more. Go in and bring your team out at the top of
the heap, and I’ll be paid for my trouble. I used to belong to the
Giants once.”
Joe wanted to ask him more, but the man only waved his hand and
disappeared in the black mouth of the tunnel. Joe felt for the spikes
in the slippery pile and found them just as his rescuer had said.
Three minutes later he was standing on the hot planks of the dock, the
glorious summer sun beating down on him, deep joy and thanksgiving in
his heart.
The dock was deserted, and Joe started for the landward end, on his
guard for any sign of his enemies. But nothing occurred to hinder him,
and in a few minutes he had reached West Street. Here he turned south
for a few blocks and then east until he reached a subway station. Here
he boarded a subway train that would take him to the Polo Grounds.
As the train whizzed uptown it almost seemed to Joe as though he had
been through a terrible dream, from which he had just awakened. In his
ears was still the voice of the man, saying:
“The gang will meet at Bill Davendorp’s to-night and we’ll make our
plans then.”
Joe had heard of this Davendorp before. He was a shady character, known
to the police but never actually convicted of any crime. He was the
proprietor of “Davendorp’s Sporting Parlors,” a resort much frequented
by people who led an evil life.
Already Joe was beginning to revolve plans in his mind for discovering
the schemes of the plotters, but, warned by his recent terrible
experience, he had no intention of going into the venture single-handed.
He planned to tell the whole story to McRae and leave the matter to the
greater experience and resources of the manager.
When Joe entered the clubhouse a shout went up that brought McRae and
Robson on the run, under the impression that a riot had broken out. Joe
was bombarded with questions from every side, and the delight of his
team mates passed all bounds. It was some time before McRae and Robson
could drag him away to the former’s office, where Joe gave a complete
account of his harrowing experiences.
“But how about Jim?” asked McRae, when Joe had finished. “Wasn’t he
with you?”
“Jim?” exclaimed Joe. “Don’t tell me that the gang has got him, too!”
“It looks that way,” said the manager grimly. “He went in search of
you the day following your disappearance, and nobody’s seen nor heard
from him since.”
This news came as a terrible blow to Joe and put a damper on his
happiness at his own escape. But he resolved to hunt for his missing
friend right away.
This was not so easy, however, as news of his arrival had gone out on
to the field and spread to grandstand and bleachers, where the greatest
excitement prevailed. Joe had to go out and show himself, whereupon the
fans rose and gave him a greeting that any one might have been proud
to receive as a tribute. They all wanted Joe to pitch the game that
afternoon, but McRae would not hear of it.
“After what you’ve been through, Matson, you need a good rest before
you’ll be ready to pitch again. Take the afternoon off, and forget
about baseball for that length of time.”