“We can hold it,” said Ward, confidently. “The three of us can do it easily.”
“If the rope gets to going, it will skin our hands,” Fred warned him.
“Don’t stand too near the edge, or you’ll be dragged over,” said Polly, who was eager to help in some way.
“Dump it over,” Artie advised, carelessly. “You can’t hurt a heavy table like that.”
“Much you know about it,” said Fred. “One of these legs is likely to crack off. Well, I suppose, as Ward says, the three of us can hold it.”
He dragged the table nearer the edge and took up the rope, standing back about two feet. Ward and Artie, in the order named, took up the rope, standing about the same distance from each other.
“I’ll give you the word,” said Fred, beginning to move the table nearer and nearer, pushing cautiously with his foot.
Ward felt a stinging sensation in his eye—a grain of dust, most likely. He rubbed frantically, while a cousin of the same mischievous dust atom flew on to Artie and caused him to sneeze tremendously. As every one will tell you, it is quite impossible to keep your mind on any job and sneeze at the same time. Small wonder that Artie forgot the rope, as Ward had done.
The table teetered a minute over the edge of the loft, then dropped. Fred felt as though his arms were being pulled from the sockets for one brief moment, and then the strain slackened. He looked back. The three girls were holding the rope, their feet braced as they pulled. Ward and Artie stood staring at him.
“Grab that rope!” shouted Fred. “What are you thinking of? Grab hold! Do you want the thing to go bang?”