Then he was laid upon an inclined plane, feet downward. It seemed steep, too, and when his fingers accidentally touched the little rail at the side he noticed that it was well greased.
He did not need to be told then what was to happen, for he knew that he would be sent whizzing down this plane to land—somewhere.
"Is the tank all ready?" asked somebody, who was holding Frank by the shoulders and thus keeping him from sliding down.
"Yes," came a muffled voice that seemed far, far below. "Let him go!"
The hands on Frank's shoulders were released, and he promptly began to rush down the plane.
In less than a second his feet had come in contact with a mattress, and as the force of his fall brought him to an upright position, a glass of water was flung into his face.
At the same instant the bandage was torn from his eyes, the hood raised, and he found himself standing in a well-lighted room surrounded by a group of laughing and interested seniors.
He turned with an expression of the utmost amazement to the plane down which he had slid. He saw that the distance up which he had been slowly raised by the windlass was less than ten feet.