Phil had saved the big top, and perhaps a few lives at the
same time. Now a sudden dizziness seemed to have overtaken him.
Everything appeared to be whirling about him, the big top
spinning like a giant top before his eyes.
"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.
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