What might have happened to Joe at that critical minute is a matter for conjecture had not fate—or the police—decided to take a hand in the matter.

Lying there half unconscious, his hands pinioned by McCarney, Reddy’s bulk on his chest and Reddy’s liquor-laden breath in his face, Joe did not at first understand the cause of the sudden noise and confusion below stairs.

All he knew was that his head hurt him unbearably and that in his heart was a rage that dulled even the pain in his head. Then gradually he realized that the situation was changed.

The sound of running feet, the sound of raised voices, some bullying, some fearful, became louder and louder until they penetrated even Joe’s fading consciousness. He was aware that McCarney had left off brandishing his fist in his face and that Reddy had suddenly removed his weight from off his chest.

He stopped not to argue about the cause of this good fortune but weakly and dizzily raised himself to his knees. When he had, by dint of all the will power he possessed plus a grip on the rickety table beside him, managed to raise himself to his feet, he found that Reddy and McCarney had miraculously disappeared.

He looked toward the window and found that it was open. He pressed his hand to his aching forehead impatiently and fought to be able to think clearly.

Then he caught a phrase from among the shouts and cries that filled the rooms beneath him, and that phrase roused him immediately to the need for action.

“Get the whisky, boys!” a husky voice ordered. “We’ve got the men—now what we need is evidence. We’ll wipe this joint off the map!”

“A raid! A prohibition-agents’ raid!” thought Joe, his brain now functioning quickly enough. That was the reason Reddy and McCarney had left him so suddenly just when they had him where they wanted him. Well, it was up to him to leave suddenly, too. If he were caught here!

Swift feet were running up the stairs. No possibility of escape in that direction. The back stairs? No, that was hopeless too. To reach the back stairs he must first enter the corridor, and to do that would be to invite disaster. The window! That was his only chance. In a moment more police would be entering the room. How could he explain?

He rushed to the window, taking a quick survey. He had but a minute to think. Eagerly he looked out, but only a blank brick wall met his anxious gaze. No window underneath this one, no shed to break his fall.

He must take his chance, anyway. It was his only chance. Voices were even then on the balcony. Quick as a cat, he lifted himself over the sill, lowering his length along the side of the blank brick wall until he was hanging by his hands, only the tips of his fingers showing over the window sill.

Allowing himself no time to think, he dropped, at the same time flinging his body outward so that it might not strike against the wall.

The ground seemed to come up to meet him and he landed with a jar that seemed to shake loose every tooth in his head. Lucky for him that the patch of ground beside the disreputable little hotel had never been filled in with cement. It was hard enough and lumpy enough, but it was not as hard as cement.

Satisfied that no bones were broken and that his legs were still in good working order, Joe wasted no time before making use of them.

Luckily there were no policemen guarding that side of the hotel. There were few windows, and those high, and no doors and evidently the prohibition agents had discounted the possibility of any one escaping from that quarter. Also they had come after “evidence” more than prisoners, a fact which also worked in Joe’s favor.

After skirting the rear of the building next to the hotel, Joe, straightening his clothing as well as he could, ventured out on the sidewalk. It was at that moment that he realized he had left his hat inside.

Probably no one, except the poor wretch who is unfortunate enough to have been in a similar predicament at one time or another, can possibly imagine what Joe felt at that moment. Also he had never before realized what an important part of a man’s attire a hat really is.

“You sort of get to take your head gear for granted, I guess,” he mused unhappily, as he walked along as nonchalantly as he could, trying to look as if it were his regular custom to appear hatless in the street.

But in spite of his valiant attempt to seem unconcerned he soon realized that, even in that rather disreputable quarter of the town, he was attracting unwelcome attention.

“Maybe I’ve got a black eye or a cut lip,” he mused miserably as he hurried along, trying not to notice the stares that followed him and the occasional laugh and gibe of some humorously inclined passer-by. “Shouldn’t wonder if I were a fit candidate for a circus side show. Some mess that was to get mixed up in!”

But when an impertinent “newsie,” grinning from ear to ear, held out a disreputable and tattered cap for his inspection, inviting him gleefully to “help yourself—it ain’t much, but it’s the best I got, Mister,” Joe lost what little aplomb he had left.

A passing taxicab caught his eye and he made a running jump for it, saw that it was empty, opened the door and got in before the surprised and outraged driver could do more than open his mouth and shut it again.

A minute later the car slowed down and the chauffeur glared in at the occupant of his cab.

“Say, what d’you think you’re doin’?” he growled, but he got no further. All the pent-up irritation and wrath that had been simmering in Joe for the past hour was poured forth on that unfortunate chauffeur’s head.

This had the effect of ending the discussion right there as far as the chauffeur was concerned. Having firmly come to the conclusion in his own mind that a lunatic had taken possession of his cab he decided to take his passenger to his destination and there to drop him at the first possible minute.

So it happened that a short time later, having paid the taxicab driver, Joe entered the rear of his hotel and made a break for the stairs.

He was not going to trust himself even to the mercies of the elevator boy, who knew and revered him as an idol. As a matter of fact, Joe was not particularly eager to meet anybody until he had had a chance to look at himself in the mirror and discover to what extent—if any—his features had been damaged. Also, he wanted a hat! Oh, he very badly wanted a hat!

In the corridor Baseball Joe met Jim, evidently sallying forth to practice, and the latter stood and stared—at least, that is what he would have done had the exasperated Joe given him a chance.

In another moment they were both within Joe’s room with the door closed against unwelcome intrusion.

“Now out with it!” Joe said. “Do your worst. Am I a total wreck?”

“I think you’re a total loss as far as appearances are concerned,” Jim retorted. “Where’s your hat?”

Joe groaned and made a rush for the bathroom beyond. There he could examine his countenance for himself. To his intense relief he found that Reddy and McCarney had left no signs of their attack other than a rather large bump on the back of the head.

He was fingering this gingerly when Jim entered the room. In the mirror Joe caught sight of the worried expression his chum wore and grinned broadly. He was beginning at last to see the funny side of his adventure.

“I say, Joe,” Jim said, not returning his chum’s grin, “what’s up, anyway? You’ve run into something. Stop grinning and give me the story.”

“If you’ll wait till I get a bath and jump into some clean things, I’ll tell you the fool I made of myself—and more besides,” answered Joe, with a longing glance at the tub.

So, after he had splashed around in hot water that took the ache out of his bones and then splashed his face with cold water that assuaged the ache in his head, Joe told Jim the startling events that had taken place since his determination to follow Hupft and McCarney and find out what they were up to.

“Whew!” whistled Jim, as, a few minutes later, he watched Joe put on a clean collar. “You certainly did stage some little show all by yourself, didn’t you? Pity you couldn’t let a fellow in on it.”

“You ought to be glad I didn’t,” retorted Joe. “It was no nice party, I’m telling you.”

“But, say!” Jim went on excitedly. “This thing about Reddy and McCarney being in cahoots, joining hands in the great conspiracy stuff—what are you going to do about that?”

“What is there to do about it?” asked Joe, with a shrug of his shoulders as he turned from the mirror and caught up a hat. “We don’t really know any more than we did before, only that our suspicions have been to some extent verified. If that fool waiter hadn’t come around just as he did I might have listened to some purpose. I haven’t learned yet what ring is backing them up. We’d better be on our way,” he added. “We’ll be late for practice as it is. Plenty of time to finish our talk on the way down.”

“I can’t get this thing straight in my mind yet,” Jim complained, as they hurried along toward the field. “It begins to look as if McRae were right—as if this gang of crooks were really out for blood. But, Joe, I’m glad the cops chose that time to raid the hotel.”

“What’s the idea?” asked Joe, as he skillfully wriggled and darted through the traffic. “I don’t get you.”

“You poor old simpleton!” retorted Jim affectionately. “Do you know where you would be now if that raid hadn’t scared off McCarney and Hupft?”

“I don’t know,” returned Joe, with a grin. “But I have a strong suspicion it would be somewhere far away from here.”

“Just so,” returned Jim, adding with more than a little anxiety in his tone: “You’ve got to stop jumping in where angels fear to tread. Or, if you must do it, at least seek company in your jumpings. You’ve more than yourself to think of, you know. There’s Mabel.”

“I know,” said Joe steadily. “Don’t suppose I’m not always thinking of her, old man. But I’ve got my duty to the league and the great game too. Not even Mabel would want me to forget that.”

“Just the same,” retorted Jim stubbornly, “it won’t help the game any if you get injured!”