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.