CHAPTER VI.
PROVING HIS METTLE
Familiar as they were with daring deeds, those of the circus people who witnessed Phil Forrest’s dive gasped.
They expected to see the boy fall beneath the feet of the plunging pony, where he would be likely to be trampled and kicked to death.
But Phil had looked before he leaped. He had measured his distance well—had made up his mind exactly what he was going to do, or rather what he was going to try to do.
The pony, catching a brief glimpse of the dark figure that was being hurled through the air directly toward him, made a swift leap to one side. But the animal was not quick enough. The boy landed against the broncho with a jolt that nearly knocked the little animal over, while to Phil the impact could not have been much more severe, it seemed to him, had he collided with a locomotive.
“Hang on!” howled a voice from the wagon.
That was exactly what he intended to do.
The cloud of dust, with Mr. Sparling in the center of it, had not reached them, but his keen eyes already had observed what was going on.
“G-g-g-grab the woman!” shouted Phil.
His left arm had been thrown about the broncho’s neck, while his right hand was groping frantically for the animal’s nose. But during all this time the pony was far from idle. He was plunging like a ship in a gale, cracking the whip with Phil Forrest until it seemed as if every bone in the lad’s body would be broken. He could hear his own neck snap with every jerk.