He then laid this part of the work aside for a moment and began filing off one end of the riveted axle that held the pulley wheel in its frame. When he had knocked this axle out he tried one of the bolts and found that it fitted almost exactly, and that the wheel ran freely upon it.
"Have to have that wheel off to put the thing on the telegraph wire," he explained, as he began securely fastening the copper wires into the bottom of the pulley frame.
Completed, the thing looked for all the world like a miniature trapeze seat.
"Now," he said, slipping a wrench into his pocket, and buckling on his legs a pair of spurs such as all linemen use to climb a smooth pole, "I'm going to take this up that telegraph pole with me and fasten this thing on the wire. Then it's 'All aboard for the opposite mountain.'
"If I get over all right I'll give one flash of my light. If I don't—well, don't try the wire route."
Without wasting another second he dug one spur into the pole and started climbing upward, dragging his improvised car with him, together with the loose end of the reel of copper wire.
By this time it was pitch dark, and they could feel, rather than see, that he was tightening the bolt which hung the apparatus on the wire. The lads had placed a heavy stick through the reel, and two of them held either end of it.
"Let it run free," the lieutenant told them. "And don't forget the signal. I'm ready. Good-by!"
There was a sudden jerk on the reel and the wire began to unwind quickly. It literally spun round on the stout stick which they were holding. They just got a glimpse of the courageous lieutenant sailing off through space, a thousand feet above the bottom of the ravine.
The unwinding wire gave an added spurt, and then, pressure being released from it, it began to slow down.