There was a grim twitching at the corners of prescott’s mouth, but he said nothing.

Again the coin was tossed.  This time Dick called: 

“Heads!”

He won.

“I’m ready,” announced Dick quietly.

“I congratulate you, old fellow,” murmured Dave eagerly.  “And I’m going with you to the base of the flagpole!  The last climb is yours you’ve won it!”

CHAPTER XII

The Nerve of the Soldier

Again Mrs. Macey sought to interpose.  Her husband, too, was at first against it.

But, now that the die was fairly cast, Herr Schimmelpodt firmly championed the boys.

“Eider von of dem gan do it—–­easy!” declared the big German.  “You don’t know dem boys——­vot?  Ach, I do.  Dey got der brain, der nerves und der muscle.”

“It’s a crime to let such youths attempt the thing,” shivered an anaemic-looking man in the crowd.  “Whichever one goes up that flagstaff will come down again faster.  He’ll be killed!”

“Cheer up some more,” advised Herr Schimmelpodt stolidly.  “It don’t gost you nottings, anyway.  If Dick Bresgott preak his neck soon, I gif him der bulliest funeral dot any boy in Gridley efer hat.”

“But what good-----” began the nervous man tremulously.

“Talk ist cheap,” retorted Herr Schimmelpodt, with a wink, “mid dot’s all I haf to bay for dot funeral.  Dick Bresgott ain’t fool enough yet to preak der only neck he has.”

At this a jolly laugh went around, relieving the tension a bit, for there were many in the crowd who had begun to feel mighty serious as soon as they realized that Dick was in earnest.

Some one brought the janitor of the church.  A hardware dealer near by came along with two coils of rope, which he thought might be handy.

Mr. Macey went inside with the janitor and the two chums.  A score or two more would have followed, but the janitor called to Herr Schimmelpodt to bar the way, which the big German readily did.

Then the four inside began to climb the winding staircase to the bell loft.

“Go slowly, Dick; loaf,” counseled Dave.  “Don’t waste a bit of your wind foolishly.”

At the bell loft all four paused to look down at the crowd.

Now up a series of ladders the four were obliged to climb, inside the spire top.  This spire top was thirty-six feet above the floor of the bell loft; but eight feet from the top of the spire a window let out upon a narrow iron gallery that ran around the spire.

“I—–­I don’t believe I’ll step out there,” faltered Mr. Macey, who was stout and apoplectic-looking.

“I don’t blame ye any,” agreed the janitor.  “It ain’t just the place, out there, for a man o’ your weight and years.”

“Don’t look down at the street, Dick,” begged Dave.

“Why not?” asked Prescott, deliberately disobeying.  “If I couldn’t do that without getting dizzy, it would be foolish to climb the pole.”