The Circus Boy's merry laugh floated down to them as he worked in an effort to get the plank into position. By tying the rope to one end of the plank to support it he gradually worked the plank out through the opening, after a time managing to shove the end nearest to him under a beam.

"There, I'd like to see you turn a trick like that, Billy Conley," he shouted.

"_I_ wouldn't," retorted Billy. "What's the next move?"

"In a minute. Watch me!"

The lad made a large loop in the rope in the shape of a slip knot. All preparations being made he boldly walked out on the plank which, secured at one end like a springboard, bent and trembled beneath his weight.

The men down below gasped.

The farmer, having changed his mind, had come out to watch the operation rather than visit the back farm. Two neighbors had by this time joined him.

"Who's the fellow up there?" asked one.

"He is a performer in a circus."

"A performer? Shucks! He's no more performer than I am."

"Watch him and perhaps you may change your mind," answered Billy, who had overheard the remark. "That boy is one of the finest circus performers in this country. Do you think he could stand out on that plank, more than thirty feet above the ground, if he were not a performer? Why, I wouldn't be up there for a million dollars, and you wouldn't, either."

"That's right," answered the farmer himself. "That beats all the circus performances I ever saw. What is the kid going to do?"

"I don't know," confessed Billy. "He knows and that's enough."

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.

The farmers stood gaping. But Billy, with the quick instincts of a showman, darted beneath the plank hoping to catch and break the lad's fall.

Phil had leaned too far backward in making his cast. He had lost his balance and toppled over. Here his training in aerial work served him in good stead. As he felt himself going he turned quickly facing toward the outer end of the plank.

Like a flash both hands shot out. They closed about the end of the plank by a desperately narrow margin.

The plank bent until it seemed as if it must snap under his weight. Then it shot upward, carrying the boy with it, he kicking his feet together as he was lifted and laughing out of pure bravado.

Phil knew he was safe now. The drop had tested the plank, so that there was now slight danger of its breaking.

On the second rebound he swung himself to the upper side of it and stood up.

"Hurrah!" he shouted.

Billy was pale and trembling.

"If you do that again I'll have an attack of heart disease, Phil!" he called. "Now, what are you going to do? The rope is hanging seven or eight feet away from you."

"h.e.l.lo, that's so. I hadn't observed that before. I should not have let go of it. Never mind, I'll get it unless something breaks. See here, Billy, you get from under there."

"Is the plank likely to fall?" asked Billy innocently.

"The plank? No. I am likely to take a tumble," answered Phil, with a short laugh. All at once he grew serious and still. "I think I can make it," he decided.

His resolution formed, the lad crouched low, so as not to throw so great a leverage on the plank that it would slip from under him when he leaped. He prepared for the spring.

"Don't do it!" howled Billy, now thoroughly frightened.

"Don't you see what he's up to? He's going to jump off the plank and try to catch hold of the rope hanging from the cupola. He'll never make it. He'll miss it sure as he's a foot high. This is awful!"

"Don't bother me, Billy. Mr. Farmer, is that cupola strong enough to bear my weight on a sudden jolt?"

"It ought to hold a ton, dead weight."

"Then I guess it will hold me. Don't talk to me down there.

Here goes!"

It seemed a foolhardy thing to do. To the average person it would have meant almost sure death. It must be remembered, however, that Phil Forrest was a circus performer, that he felt as thoroughly at home far above the ground as he did when standing directly on it.

He leaped out into the air, cleared the intervening s.p.a.ce between the plank and the rope, his fingers closing over the latter with a sureness born of long experience.

His body swung far over toward the other side of the silo, settling down with a sickening jolt, as the loop over the cupola slipped down tight.

"Hooray!" cried Phil, twisting the rope about one leg and waving a hand to those below him.

They drew a long, relieved sigh. The farmers, one after the other, took off their hats and mopped their foreheads.

"Warm, isn't it?" grinned the owner of the silo.

"Now, pa.s.s up your brush and paste on this rope." Phil had brought a small rope with him for this very purpose.

Billy got busy at once and in a few minutes Phil had the brush and paste in his hands, with which he proceeded to smear as much of the side of the silo as was within reach. It will be remembered that he was hanging on the rope by one leg, around which the rope was twisted as only showmen know how to do.