"Why, the train has stopped," Forrest exclaimed, suddenly sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Now I ought to make somebody hear me because it's daylight. I can see the light underneath the door. I'll try it again."
He did try it, hammering at the door and shouting at intervals during the long hours that followed. Once more he lighted matches and began examining his surroundings with more care. Phil discovered a trap door in the roof, but it was closed.
"If only there were a rope hanging down, I'd be up there in no
time,"
he mused. I wonder if I couldn't climb up and hang to the
braces.
I might reach it in that way. I'm going to try it."
Deciding upon this, the Circus Boy, after no little effort, succeeded in climbing up to one of the side braces in the car. >From the plates long, narrow beams extended across the car, thus supporting the roof. Choosing two that led along near the trap, Phil, after a few moments' rest, gripped one firmly in each hand from the underside and began swinging himself along almost as if he were traveling on a series of traveling rings, but with infinitely more effort and discomfort.
His hands were aching frightfully, and he knew that he could hold on but a few seconds longer.
"I've got to make it," he gasped, breathing hard.
At last he had reached the goal. Phil released one hand and quickly extended it to the trap door frame.
There was not a single projection there to support him, nor to which he might cling. His hand slipped away, suddenly throwing his weight upon the hand grasping the roof timber. The strain was too much. Phil Forrest lost his grip and fell heavily to the floor.
But this time he did not rise. The lad lay still where he had fallen.