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’!” CHAPTER XXVI 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!”