“I thought of this just before we left,” said Rob, as he drew out the Eagle flag; “I guess we’re the first Boy Scouts on the Isthmus and so we’ll be the first to unfurl our totems above old Panama.”
“But how are you going to make the flag fast?” asked Tubby.
“See that prickly branch growing right out from the edge of the tower? I guess I’ll make mine fast to that,” said Rob, “it’ll be as good as a flag pole.”
“Look out you don’t slip,” warned Merritt, as Rob made his way over roughly piled stones that had crumbled from the parapet and gained the edge of the tower. At that point a staff-like thorn bush raised one bare arm aloft. As Rob had said, it did indeed make a regular flag pole.
Balancing himself carefully, the leader of the Eagle Patrol reached out and peered over the edge.
“Wow, fellows, but it looks a long way to the ground!” he exclaimed. “If I ever fell, I’d land with a bump all right.”
Clasping the flag in one hand, he leaned out and laid hold of the upright branch. There was a sudden cracking sound. The horrified Scouts, who were watching Rob, saw him make a desperate grab at the wall to recover himself as the branch snapped.
But Rob’s effort came too late.
“He’s gone!” yelled Tubby, turning as white as a ghost as Rob, without a sound, plunged over the parapet and out of sight.
His chums turned sick and faint. They dared not go to the edge to gaze upon what they knew must lie at the foot of the tower. They simply stood like figures carved out of wood waiting for the sound of Rob’s crashing fall.