The roof of the lion cage that housed Wallace projected over the edge some six inches, and this had caught the keen eyes of the lad at the first alarm. His plan had been formed in a flash.
He shot one end of the side pole up under the projecting roof, jammed the other end into the ground, throwing his whole weight upon the foot of the pole to hold it in place.
For an instant the tent pole bent like a bow under the pull of the archer. It seemed as if it must surely snap under the terrific strain.
Phil saw this, too. Now that the foot of the pole was firmly imbedded in the ground, there was no further need for him to hold it down. He sprang under the pole with the swaying cage directly over him, grabbed the pole at the point where it was arching so dangerously, and pulling himself from the ground, held to the slippery stick desperately.
Light as he was the boy’s weight saved the pole. It bent no further.
The cage swayed from side to side, threatening to topple over at one end or the other.
“Get poles under the ends,” shouted the boy in a shrill voice. “I can’t hold it here all day.”
“Get poles, you lazy good-for-nothings!” bellowed the owner. “Brace those ends. Look out for the elephant. Don’t you see he’s headed for the cage again?”
Orders flew thick and fast, but through it all Phil Forrest hung grimly to the side pole, taking a fresh overhand hold, now and then, as his palms slipped down the painted stick.
Now that he had shown the way, others sprang to his assistance. Half a dozen poles were thrust up under the roof and the cage began slowly settling back the other way.