is touch
and carries him on in a long sweep, then leaping again, feet first, from
this flying bar through a paper balloon, where he holds by his arms and
drops swiftly thirty-five feet to the ground.

I was surprised to find the hero of this perilous feat rather the
reverse of athletic in appearance. St. Belmo struck me as a pale, thin,
almost sickly man. Yet I judge it would fare ill with any one who tried
to impose upon him as an invalid. Over that spare form are hard,
tireless muscles, and for years to come St. Belmo feels equal to leaping
this obstacle of blades and flame.

Most people, I suppose, in watching this act would imagine the knives to
be of wood and tinsel, but I saw that they were of steel, and sharp,
heavy double-edged knives a foot long, murderous weapons made by St.
Belmo himself out of old saws. And fifteen of these, with points turned
inward, form the heart through which this gaunt yet rather genial
gymnast shoots his way.

[Illustration: THROUGH A PAPER BALLOON AT THE END OF A GREAT FEAT.]

I asked St. Belmo about the accidents that he had suffered. Had he ever
struck the knives when leaping through? Yes, again and again. He had
torn his clothes to tatters on them, and lined his body with scars. But
that was years ago, when he was learning. Now he never touched the
knives. He could leap through them, eyes shut, as surely as a man puts a
spoon in his mouth without striking his teeth.

How about falls in the air? Well, he remembered two in particular, one
at Syracuse, where he missed the trapeze because some one was careless
in fastening a snap-hook that held it, and when he came through the
blades and flames head first, and reached for the bar, the bar had swung
away, and he plunged on smash down to the ground, and broke both legs.

"Didn't you look for the bar before you made the leap?" I questioned.

He shook his head. "I never see the bar for the dazzle of fire. I know
where it must be, and leap for that place. If it isn't there, why--" He
pointed down to his legs, and smiled ruefully.

He had another fall at Seattle, where he came down thirty-five feet and
put both his knees out of joint, all because he was thinking of
something else as he shot toward the balloon, and forgot to throw out
his arms and catch in the hoop. It was exactly the case of a man who
might walk over the edge of a housetop through absent-mindedness.

"Ever have a feeling of fear?" I asked.

"I don't know as you'd