On he went, and on, at last reaching the very top. Over the coping he climbed, and gaily waved his flag as he bowed to the applauding crowds below.
Then, for Hanlon was a daring soul, the return journey was begun.
Even more fascinating than the ascent was this hazardous task.
Fibsy watched him, noted every step, every motion, and was fairly beside himself with the excitement of the moment.
And, then, when half a dozen stories from the ground—when success was almost within his grasp—something happened. Nobody knew what—a misstep—a miscalculation of distance—a slipping stone—whatever the cause, Hanlon fell. Fell from the sixth story to the ground.
Those nearest the catastrophe stepped back—others pushed forward—and an ambulance, ready for such a possible occasion, hurried the wounded man to the hospital.
For Hanlon was not killed, but so crushed and broken that his life was but a matter of hours—perhaps moments.
“Let me in—I must see him!” Fibsy fought the doormen, the attendants, the nurses.
“I tell you I must! In the name of the law, let me in!”
And then a more coherent insistence brought him permission, and he was immediately admitted to Hanlon’s presence.