His resolution formed, the lad crouched low, so as not to throw
so great a leverage on the plank that it would slip from under
him when he leaped. He prepared for the spring.

"Don't do it!" howled Billy, now thoroughly frightened.
"Don't you see what he's up to? He's going to jump off
the plank and try to catch hold of the rope hanging from
the cupola. He'll never make it. He'll miss it sure as
he's a foot high. This is awful!"

"Don't bother me, Billy. Mr. Farmer, is that cupola strong
enough to bear my weight on a sudden jolt?"

"It ought to hold a ton, dead weight."

"Then I guess it will hold me. Don't talk to me down there.
Here goes!"

It seemed a foolhardy thing to do. To the average person it
would have meant almost sure death. It must be remembered,
however, that Phil Forrest was a circus performer, that he felt
as thoroughly at home far above the ground as he did when
standing directly on it.

He leaped out into the air, cleared the intervening space between
the plank and the rope, his fingers closing over the latter with
a sureness born of long experience.

His body swung far over toward the other side of the silo,
settling down with a sickening jolt, as the loop over the cupola