BART'S BEST SHOT
Bart turned to Fenn. He was just about to whisper to his chum to take up
the pursuit of the mysterious man, leaving him to attempt a difficult
shot to save the life of the lineman, but at that instant there was a
swaying in the crowd, and a boy stumbled up against Fenn's sore arm. The
injured lad uttered a cry of pain. His face turned white, and he was
struggling to stay on his feet.
"Catch him! He's going to faint!" cried some one, and faint poor Fenn
did, being caught in the arms of two men.
Bart felt his brain reeling, but, by a strong effort he held himself
together.
There was now no chance of continuing the pursuit of the mysterious man.
Fenn was being carried to a place where he could be cared for. It was
impossible to communicate with Ned and Frank, who were on the other side
of the street, and Bart could not go away and leave the man on the pole
to die. There was no help for it. He must stay and try, by a most
difficult shot, to sever the dangerous wire.
"Will you do it? Can you do it?" asked the lineman who had proposed the
extreme measure to the lad. "It's the only chance. Can you cut that
wire?"
"I think so," was the quiet answer. No one in that crowd knew under what
a strain Bart Keene was at that moment. No one associated the now
unconscious Fenn with him, and no one dreamed that Bart was anxious to
continue after a man who he believed to be a criminal, and who was fast
making his escape.
"Can you hold on a minute longer, George?" called a workman on the
ground, up to the lineman on the pole.
"Yes," came back the faint answer, "but it's hard work. Can't you shut
off the current? If I make a move I'm a goner. Can't you turn off the
current?"
"We're going to try to cut the wire," went on the man who had thought of
the plan. "We can't get the current shut off right away. Listen
carefully, George. Hold as still as you can. There's a lad here with a
rifle. He's a good shot, he says, and he's going to fire at the live
wire until he cuts it. It's going to be a close shave for you, as the
wire is pretty near to your head. Have you nerve enough to stand it?"
"I--I guess so," came the hesitating answer. "Go ahead!"
The crowd below was scarcely breathing. The man on the pole could be
seen straining himself to maintain his perilous position. He looked
down. Death was below him, and on every side, and none dare climb the
pole to help him. The rifle seemed the only chance, unless some one
could go five miles to the power house, and have the current turned off,
or unless the electrician returned, and this would take so long that the
man's hold would loosen, and he would either fall, or be shocked to
death. It all depended on Bart, and the lad knew that he must now shoot
true, if he never shot straight again. It was to be his best shot--a
well-nigh tragic shot.
"Clear a space for the lad!" ordered the lineman, as he and his fellows
began making a circle about Bart. "Give him room. Have you got plenty of
cartridges, young man?"
Bart nodded. He felt that he could not speak, and he knew that the
chamber of his rifle was filled. Yet he hoped to do the trick with only
one bullet.
The shot was a hard one. He must cut a wire within four inches of the
shoulder of the man whose life he was trying to save, and he had to fire
upward, and at a slightly swaying target--a target small enough at best,
hardly more than half an inch wide. Yet Bart did not hesitate.
He took his position under the wires, and close to the pole. The crowd
was looking eagerly on, and the man on the pole was like a statue. Well
he knew how much depended on his remaining motionless.
Bart raised his rifle. A mist seemed to come before his eyes, but with a
gritting of his teeth he got more control of himself, and then he saw
clear. He took careful aim, and then he saw that he could shoot to more
advantage from the other side of the pole. He would have to fire closer
to the man, but the bullet would take an outward slant in cutting the
wire, and there was less danger of it glancing off and wounding the
lineman.
The lad changed his position, and once more took careful aim. He took a
long breath, and his finger began to tighten on the trigger. At that
instant there came a puff of wind, and the wire at which he was aiming
swayed toward the unfortunate man. There was a cry of horror, and
several persons in the crowd started toward Bart, as if to stop the
firing of the gun. But the lad was on the alert, and waited until the
wire was still again.
One, two, three seconds passed. Would he never fire? Suddenly those
watching him saw his figure stiffen. He braced the rifle more firmly
against his shoulder. There was a further tightening of the tension of
his trigger finger, and a report that seemed to the nervous crowd to be
as loud as a cannon vibrated on the wintry air.
An instant later there came tumbling from aloft a long wire, that
writhed about like some snake, spitting blue flames and sparks. It
wiggled about on the ground as a thing alive.
"Keep back! Keep back from that wire!" shouted a lineman. "Good shot, my
lad! Great! You cut the wire with one bullet!"
Bart lowered his gun. Once more the mist seemed to come before his eyes,
but it did not matter now, for he had saved the man. Yet no one ever
knew how narrow was the margin, for, as Bart was pulling the trigger,
the wire was once more swayed by the wind, and the bullet from the rifle
had sped past the man's head less than two inches away. So close had he
been to death! But Bart had shot true, and, ever, in after years, he
called that his best shot.
A cheer went up from the crowd at the plucky act of the lad, but it was
quickly hushed as one of the linemen began to climb the pole, to assist
down his comrade who had had such a narrow escape. He was too unnerved
to descend alone, but there was no more danger, for the live wire was
out of the way, and other linemen, with insulated gloves, soon had it in
its proper place.