"Turn, Teddy! Turn! You'll strike on your head."

Teddy was as powerless to turn as if he had been paralyzed from
head to foot. Down he went, straight as an arrow. There
followed a splash as his head struck the water of the ditch, the
lad's feet beating a tattoo in the air while his head was stuck
fast in the mud at the bottom of the ditch.

"He'll drown," gasped Phil, springing down into the little
stream, regardless of the damage liable to be done to his own
clothes.

Throwing both arms about the body of his companion he gave a
mighty tug. Teddy stuck obstinately, and Phil was obliged to
take a fresh hold before he succeeded in hauling the lad from his
perilous position. Teddy was gasping for breath. His face,
plastered with mud, was unrecognizable, while his clothes were
covered from head to foot.

Phil dumped him on the grass beneath the circus billboard and
began wiping the mud from his companion's face, while Teddy
quickly sat up, blinking the mud out of his eyes and grumbling
unintelligibly.

"You're a fine circus performer, you are," laughed Phil.
"Suppose you had been performing on a flying trapeze in a circus,
what do you suppose would have happened to you?"

"I'd have had a net under me then, and I wouldn't have fallen in
the ditch," grunted Teddy sullenly.