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
slipped down tight.
"Hooray!" cried Phil, twisting the rope about one leg and waving
a hand to those below him.
They drew a long, relieved sigh. The farmers, one after the
other, took off their hats and mopped their foreheads.
"Warm, isn't it?" grinned the owner of the silo.
"Now, pass up your brush and paste on this rope." Phil had
brought a small rope with him for this very purpose.
Billy got busy at once and in a few minutes Phil had the brush
and paste in his hands, with which he proceeded to smear as much
of the side of the silo as was within reach. It will be
remembered that he was hanging on the rope by one leg, around
which the rope was twisted as only showmen know how to do.
"Now, the paper," called Phil.
This was passed up to him in the same way.
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