With a sudden movement that could only have been executed by one
with unusual strength and agility, Phil let the rope slip through
his hands just enough to slacken his speed. Instantly he threw
himself around the center pole, twisting the rope around and
around it, each twist slackening his upward flight a little.
He knew that, were his head to strike the iron ring in the dome
at the speed he was traveling, he would undoubtedly be killed.
It was as much to prevent this as to save the tent that Phil took
the action he did, though his one real thought was to save his
employer's property.

Now the rapid upward shoot had dwindled to a slow, gradual
slipping of the rope as it moved up the center pole inch by inch.
But Phil's peril was even greater than before. The moment that
heavy iron ring began pressing down on his head and shoulders
with the weight of the canvas behind it, there would be nothing
for him to do but to let go.

A forty-foot fall to the hard ground below seemed inevitable.
Yet he did not lose his presence of mind for an instant.

"Give him a hand!" yelled the boss canvasman.

"How? How?" shouted the canvasmen. "We can't reach him."

"Get a net under that boy, you blockheads!" thundered Mr.
Sparling,
rushing over from his station. "Don't you see he's bound to
fall,
and if he does he'll break his neck?"