Phil, having tested the plank to his satisfaction and studied his balance, now cast his eyes up to the little cupola on top of the silo. Then he began slowly swinging the loop of the rope over his head, after the fashion of a cowboy about to make a cast.
They were at a loss to understand what he was trying to do, but every man there was sure in his own mind what Phil Forrest would do—fall off.
Suddenly he let go of the loop. It soared upward. Then they began to understand. He was trying to rope the cupola.
The rope fell short by about three feet, as nearly as he was able to judge.
"Oh, pshaw!" muttered Phil. "That was a clumsy throw. I would make just about as good a cowboy as I am a billposters. Well, here goes for another try."
He put all his strength into the throw this time.
The rope sped true, dropping as neatly over the peak of the cupola as if the thrower had been standing directly over the projection.
A cheer rose from the men below.
It died on their lips.
"He's falling!" they cried with one voice.