"Why, it's Jetson! Well, he has one accomplishment that I really envy him!" Midshipman Jetson was now going through some rapid evolutions, first hanging head downward, and then, after developing speed, raising himself and turning over the crossbar.

It was really work of which any athlete might have been proud.
"Say, Jim," muttered one attendant to the other, "that middie has me nervous for fair." "Forget it," advised the other attendant, "It's the middie's neck, not yours." "But we took the net down that goes with that bar.

Suppose the young man should fall.

He'd break his neck, and what could we say with the net gone ?" "He's no business up there at this late hour in the afternoon," grumbled the other man.
"That talk won't save us, either, if anything happens." Jetson, filled with the desire to show off before the comrade he hated, had increased the speed of his brilliant flying movements.
But suddenly he slipped.

There was no regaining his grip.