, and yet no boy
had won the prize.

"I'd like to try it," said Flukey.

"If we couldn't get it with bathing suits, you couldn't climb that pole
with them long pants," retorted one of the contestants who stood near.
"Look! that kid's goin' to get it, after all!" There was disappointment
in the tones; but the words had no sooner died away than the climber
slipped to the ground.

Flea pinched Flukey's arm. "Be yer knee so twisted that ye can't try,
Flukey?"

"Nope, my rheumatiz ain't hurtin' me now."

"Then shinny up it, Fluke--ye can climb it! Get along there!"

She took the dog from his arms, and the boy went forward when the call
came for another aspirant.

"I'm goin' to get that there bill!" said Flukey, shutting his teeth
firmly.

He advanced and spoke in an undertone to a man, who, with a grin,
shouted out the name, "Mr. F. Cronk."

The dignity of the prefix made Flukey spit upon his hands before he
started to climb the pole. Flea came closer and stood almost breathless.
Her parted lips showed small, even, white teeth, her eyes glistened, and
flashes of red blood crimsoned her face. One suspender slipping from her
shoulder, the vicious dog in her arms, the beautiful upturned face, was
as interesting a spectacle as the onlookers had ever seen. It was with
breathless interest that she watched her brother laboriously ascend the
pole.

Flukey was indeed making a masterful climb. But at last he halted; and
then, a moment later, he climbed desperately. The girl on the ground saw
him falter, and knew that he was becoming faint-hearted. To encourage
him, she lifted a voice broken by emotion and shouted:

"Go it, Fluke, go it!... Aw! damn it, he slid!... Go it, ole feller! Git
there, git there! Ye're almost there, Fluke--git it! It's a dinner--it's
a bone for Snatchet, and we'll eat!... Damn it! he slid again!... Aw!
hell!"

Flukey gained the space he had lost in his last slide. Halfway up, he
began again, the men cheering and the women waving handkerchiefs. But
the boy had heard only the words from the little figure under the pole.
The five dollars did mean a good dinner, and a bone for lean Snatchet.
Up, up, and still up, until his fingers grasped the pole very near the
top.

There he rested for breath. For a few seconds his head drooped on his
shoulders, and absolute quiet reigned below. His slender legs encircled
the pole, and finally, with a painful effort, he lifted out the pin
stuck in the bill, gra