DOWN THE ROPE
It was not easy for Joe to “forget about baseball,” but the thought of
his chum in captivity, perhaps as bad as that from which he himself had
just escaped, did much to take his mind from the game that he loved so
well.
How was he to find out where Jim was held captive? New York is a
tremendously big city, and Joe had not the faintest clue on which to
work. McCarney would be likely to know something about it, Joe thought,
but if he did there was little hope of getting the information out of
him.
Joe decided that the first step would be to go to his hotel, get a bath
and put on some respectable clothes before starting the hunt for Jim.
The clothes he had on were torn and bedraggled, and when he caught a
glimpse of himself in a mirror he realized that he looked more like a
tramp than the spruce star pitcher of the New York Giants.
When he arrived at the family hotel the clerk, a young woman, threw up
her hands in mingled wonder at his unkempt appearance and delight at
his return. She had a keen interest in both Joe and Jim, and had been
sorely grieved at their disappearance.
Joe gave her a brief sketch of his experience and told her that Jim was
still missing.
“Oh, that reminds me!” exclaimed the clerk. “A note came from Mr.
Barclay not an hour ago, and as you weren’t here I was going to call up
Mr. McRae and tell him about it.”
“A note from Jim!” exclaimed Joe. “Who brought it? Let’s have a look at
it.”
The clerk turned to her desk, and finally produced a crumpled scrap of
paper.
“There it is,” she said, handing it to Joe. “It was brought by the
dirtiest boy I ever saw. He said that he saw it thrown out of a window,
and when he saw that it was addressed to Joe Matson he pretty near
killed himself to bring it here. He seemed awfully disappointed when I
told him you weren’t here. He talked to me the longest while about what
a wonderful pitcher you were, and it was all I could do to get rid of
him. I never could understand why people think it’s such a wonderful
thing to be able to throw a baseball around,” and she smiled.
But Joe did not hear a word that she was saying. He was engrossed in
the note, which had been scribbled on a torn piece of brown wrapping
paper.
“The crooks have got me in a house opposite to number 821
East 17th St. Am taking a chance that you’ve got clear and
can help me. Come if you can. JIM.”
“Will I!” exclaimed Joe. “I’ll tell the world!” and he bounded up the
stairs to his room.
“Tell the world what?” called the clerk after him, but she got no
answer. Joe scrubbed the worst of the dirt off his hands and face,
jumped into another suit of clothes, and was out the door like a shot,
much to the disappointment of the young woman clerk, who was consumed
with curiosity to know his plans.
As a matter of fact, Joe did not have any definite plan, but his
friend had called on him for aid and his one thought was to fly to his
assistance. The idea uppermost in his mind was to locate the building,
reconnoiter it, and then see what he could do. It seemed hours before
he finally got out of the subway at East Eighteenth Street, although
really the trip was a short one. He walked rapidly in the direction of
the East River, scanning the house numbers as he went.
It did not take him long to find the address that Jim had scribbled in
his note. Opposite this house was a big building that looked as though
it had once been used as a warehouse. There seemed to be no sign of
life about it now, however. There were few windows, and most of these
were tightly boarded up.
Joe scanned the front anxiously, wondering if the note had been a fake
after all. Even if Jim were in the place, how could he let Joe know it?
These and many other doubts passed through Joe’s mind as he stood
looking at the high, drab wall of the place. But suddenly, from a small
window close to the roof, a hand was waved and a moment later Joe saw
the face of his friend framed in the opening.
Joe waved back to him, and a few minutes later he saw a bit of paper
come fluttering down. Joe picked it up almost before it had touched the
roadway and scanned its contents.
“Be careful, Joe, and whatever you do, don’t call the police,” read the
note. “If this place is raided, the first thing they’ll do is get me
out of the way. Try and get a rope up to me some way. If you can’t, it
will be bad for me.”
Joe measured the height of the window with his eye. It was at least one
hundred feet from the ground, but suddenly Joe had an inspiration.
He waved his hand to let Jim know that he had gotten the note and
understood, and then walked at top speed toward Second Avenue. After a
further walk of a few short blocks, he saw a small hardware store. He
purchased a long coil of stout hemp rope and a ball of light but strong
twine. Then in a small stationery store he bought a baseball, and with
his newly acquired property he hurried back to the place where his
friend was held prisoner.
Fortunately for Joe’s project, that part of the city, close to the
East River, is a quiet neighborhood, far removed from the roaring
tides of traffic that go surging up and down the main avenues. The
inhabitants of that neighborhood are prone to mind their own business,
and while several people whom he passed looked curiously at his unusual
equipment, no embarrassing questions were asked. The old warehouse was
the last building between the street and the river, and when Joe got to
it the street seemed deserted, for which he was duly grateful.
Taking the baseball from his pocket, he wound it firmly about with
twine and then attached a long string of that material to it. While he
was making these preparations, he could see Jim peering from the little
window, and he knew that his friend would quickly understand his plan.
Joe carefully measured the distance with his eye, wound up, and pitched
the ball with all his strength toward the small opening high in the
wall. It struck within a few inches of the window, but bounded off and
bounced down into the street. Joe picked it up, untangled the twine,
and tried again. This time the ball went right through the center of
the open window. The throw must have been all of a hundred feet from
the sidewalk to the window, and in addition the ball was weighted with
the trailing twine. It is doubtful if any other pitcher in the big
leagues could have equaled the wonderful throw. Joe, however, never
gave the matter a thought. Jim had one end of the twine, and Joe was
elated that his scheme had been successful so far.
He glanced cautiously about, but as far as he could tell his actions
had not attracted any attention. Half way up the block a few people
were going in and out of the shabby tenement houses, but they took no
notice of him. However, he judged it wise to wait a few minutes before
proceeding farther, and so sat down on his coil of rope and whittled
nonchalantly at a sliver of wood. The thin string hanging down the
front of the old warehouse would never be noticed from the street, and
Joe felt reasonably secure so far.
After about ten minutes of waiting there came a time when the street
was again almost deserted, and Joe was not slow in taking advantage
of this. Crossing swiftly over, he attached the end of the one-inch
hemp line to the twine, and gave a gentle pull to let Jim know that
everything was all right.
The latter had grasped Joe’s idea as soon as the baseball with the
twine attached came bounding into the room. Now, when he felt the tug
on the cord, he pulled the rope up hand over hand, and soon had the end
in the room. There were several big hooks in the room, and he quickly
fastened the cord to one of these. This done, he prepared to essay the
perilous descent.