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’!”