“Wh-wh-why don’t he jump?” asked Tom, squirming in his place. “Do you su-su-suppose he’s scared?”
“That’s part of it,” explained Jerry. “Donello always did that. It gets you sort of scared-like and anxious.”
It certainly did. Tom’s face looked like a piece of white paper. Bob was scowling at his programme. Even Nelson, in spite of his confidence in Dan’s ability to do most anything he made up his mind to do, looked rather miserable. Jerry was the least anxious of the four,—but he had witnessed the trials. The only entirely unperturbed member of the group was Barry. Barry was sniffing the mingled odors of the tent with calm curiosity.
High up above the ridiculously tiny tank of water, which to the uninitiated seemed barely deep enough to bathe in, stood Dan. He held a handkerchief in his hand the while he measured the distance. Then, carefully, he stepped to the edge of the little ledge, dropped the handkerchief, which went fluttering slowly down, accentuating the distance, and let his arms fall straight to his sides.
There was scarcely a sound throughout the crowded tent. The audience sat with upturned faces and fast-beating hearts. Tom’s fingers were gripped fiercely into his legs as he watched with staring fascinated eyes. Bob was breathing like a steam engine. Nelson, hands stuffed into pockets, held his underlip between his teeth and made no sound. Barry was standing in his lap and was now sniffing excitedly, his little nose pointing toward the figure on the platform and twitching violently.
The ringmaster held up one gloved hand. The bandmaster raised his baton.
“Ready!”
The voice sounded a quarter of a mile away, and Nelson shivered. The pink-clad figure gave a little hop from the edge of the platform and shot downward like a flash of light. The drums broke into a roll. The ringmaster cried “Hi!” and snapped his long whip. When a third of the way down “Signor Donello’s” arms shot out and his body revolved.
“In mid-air!” cried the ringmaster exultantly.