Tom Atwood was led forward to the end of a long plank.
"Be careful," he was cautioned. "There, put your foot there and the other one right there. Now you are all right."
"And must I really—er—stand up and take seven steps?"
"Yes, exactly seven, or woe betide thee!" came the answering cry.
With great caution the blindfolded victim took a step and then another. He was trembling visibly, which caused the club members to shake with silent laughter. He counted the steps and when he had taken just seven he fell on his hands and knees, clutching the sides of the plank tightly.
"Ho—how long is—is it?" he asked, his teeth commencing to chatter. "I—I ain't used to climbing in such places. It—it makes me dizzy!"
"Go on! go on!"
"The plank is only fifty-four feet long," said one boy.
"Oh, my! fifty-four feet; I'll go down—I know I will!"
Slowly, and clutching the plank with a death-like grip, Tom Atwood moved forward a distance of eighteen feet. Then the plank came to an end. He put out one hand after the other, but felt only the empty air.