LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
perpendicular roof, covered with sleet, shone like a glacier. We begged him to give it up and come down; but he was too plucky for that, as was testified by the grim declaration, “We build the ladder by which we rise,” as with much hammering of nails and crackling of ice he slowly toiled to the summit. At the extreme end of the building stood what we called the “Leaning Tower of Pisa.” How he was to cross that long stretch of roof, we couldn’t see. This problem he immediately solved by sitting astride the comb of the roof and jumping himself along, in a series of kangaroo leaps, a moving spectacle, as seen upon the sharp ridge of a snowy cliff; that dark, distorted figure, half crawling, half leaping, followed by the funereal folds of a trailing Prince Albert coat.
Tom, unable to restrain his delight, called out, with true showman eloquence: “The greatest free open-air entertainment ever seen upon the Pacific Slope! Professor Clutch-’em-Tight, the world-renowned bareback rider, crossing the Alps upon his famous Iceland steed, ‘Razor-back,’ which never until this hour felt the restraining hand of man. Fifty cents and a quarter of a dollar admits you to the big tent. Hurry up, everybody!”
The “Professor,” ignoring this harangue, galloped solemnly on to his goal. The “tower” being then some feet below him, a few descending steps were made. Standing upon this icy slope, the wiring was
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