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!” * * * * *