"Slide down the rope!" commanded Mr.Sparling.
The lad slowly unwound the rope from his arm and feebly motioned to them that they were to walk around the pole with their end so they might hoist the iron ring to the splice of the center pole.
"Never mind anything but yourself!" ordered Mr.Sparling."We'll attend to this mix-up ourselves."Very cautiously and deliberately, more from force of habit than otherwise, the lad had let his feet down, and with them was groping for the rope.
"Swing the line between his legs!" roared the owner."Going to let him stay up there all day?""That's what we're trying to do," answered a tentman.
"Yes, I see you trying.That's the trouble with you fellows.You always think you're trying, and if you are, you never accomplish anything.Got, it, Phil?""Y--ye--yes."
Twisting his legs about the rope the boy next took a weak grip on it with both hands, then started slowly to descend.This he knew how to do, so the feat was attended with no difficulty other than the strength required, and of which he had none to spare just at the present moment.
"Look out!" he called.He thought he had shouted it in a loud tone.As a matter of fact no sound issued from his lips.
But Mr.Sparling whose eyes had been fixed upon the boy, saw and understood.
"He's falling.Catch him!"
Phil shot downward head first.Yet with the instinct of the showman he curled his head up ever so little as he half consciously felt himself going.