ed them again with a feeling of pain. The
sudden light of a bright, sunny morning was too much for him.

"He's alive, anyhow," a girl's voice said.

Joe half opened his eyes this time, and saw a strange sight. Alongside
his boat was a cabin motor craft, and on the rear deck he could see
gathered a number of men, women and girls. What took Joe's attention
next was a queer oblong box, with a crank at one side, and a tube
projecting from it, mounted on a tripod. Then, as his eyes became more
accustomed to the light, Joe saw bending over him in the boat, two men.

One of them had a knife, with which he quickly cut the ropes that bound
Joe's arms and feet. It was a great relief.

He sat up and looked about him. The motor boat was a large and fine one,
and was slowly drifting down into Delaware Bay, for Joe could see a vast
stretch of water on all sides.

"Too bad we can't work this rescue into a scene," spoke one of the men
on the motor craft.

Joe looked at him wonderingly, and then at the machine on the bow of the
boat. All at once he realized what it was--a moving picture camera. He
had seen them before.

"Are you folks in the movies?" he asked as he stood up, with the help of
the two men.

"That's what we are," was the answer. "We came out early this morning to
do a bit of 'water stuff,' when we saw your boat adrift. We put over to
it, and were surprised to see you tied in it. Can you tell us what
happened?"

"Yes," answered Joe, "I was practically kidnapped!"

"Come aboard, and have some coffee," urged a motherly-looking woman of
the party.

"Yes, do," added another member of the company. "We have just had
breakfast."

The aroma of coffee was grateful to Joe, and soon he was aboard the
motorboat, sipping a steaming cup.

"Kidnapped; eh?" remarked one of the men. "Then we'd better save that
boat for you. It will be a clue to those who did it."

"Oh, I know who did it, all right," answered Joe, who was rapidly
feeling more like himself. "I don't need the boat for evidence. But,
since you have been so kind to me, I wish you'd do one thing more."

"Name it," promptly said the man who seemed to be in charge of the
company.

"Get me somewhere so I can send word to Philadelphia--to Manager Watson
of the St. Louis Cardinals. I want to explain what happened, so he won't
expect me in the game to-day."

"Are you a member of the St. Louis team?" asked one of the men,
quickly.

"One of the pitchers--my name