The two strands were quickly carried together and the weight of a dozen men thrown on them, instantly relieving the strain on Phil Forrest's body.
Phil had saved the big top, and perhaps a few lives at the same time. Now a sudden dizziness seemed to have overtaken him. Everything appeared to be whirling about him, the big top spinning like a giant top before his eyes.
"Slide down the rope!" commanded Mr. Sparling.
The lad slowly unwound the rope from his arm and feebly motioned to them that they were to walk around the pole with their end so they might hoist the iron ring to the splice of the center pole.
"Never mind anything but yourself!" ordered Mr. Sparling.
"We'll attend to this mix-up ourselves."
Very cautiously and deliberately, more from force of habit than otherwise, the lad had let his feet down, and with them was groping for the rope.
"Swing the line between his legs!" roared the owner. "Going to let him stay up there all day?"
"That's what we're trying to do," answered a tentman.
"Yes, I see you trying. That's the trouble with you fellows. You always think you're trying, and if you are, you never accomplish anything. Got, it, Phil?"
"Y—ye—yes."