Some of the more daring boys had jumped from the middle bar of this derrick, in emulation of Steve Brodie, whose jump from the Brooklyn Bridge and subsequent elevation to the proprietorship of a saloon had stirred up every boy in the East side. It was a dangerous thing to do, because there was an outer row of posts beyond the slip, and whoever jumped had to jump out far enough to strike the water beyond them. For, if he should not jump far enough-- What the Irish boy proposed was that some one should try to dive--not jump--from the very top of the derrick. The derrick was fifty feet above the water, and the outer line of posts was eight feet from the slip and fifteen feet from the line of the derrick. It looked like just what it was--an impossibility--for any one but the coolest and most practised diver. “If a lad should do it,” objected one of the gang, “and ’ud hit them piles, there’d be no getting at him quick e’cept from the top of the derrick. He’d sink afore any one could get around the piles to him from the slip.” “There’d be no need to hurry,” said another, grimly. “He’d keep till the police boat picked him up.” “Well, the morgue’s handy,” commented another, flippantly, with a nod of his head toward Bellevue Hospital, back of them. As ill luck would have it, Mooney came up just then, and they told him what they were discussing. “I’ll bet Tommy Grant wouldn’t be afeard to try it,” said one of the youngest. That was enough for Mr. Mooney. He said with a sneer that Tommy _would_ be afraid, and of course Tommy was told of this at once, and Tommy, after a careful survey of the jump, said it was suicide. And then Mooney called him a coward, and said he’d do it, and he’d show him who was fit to lead the gang. The elder boys told him not to be a fool, Tommy among the number; but he said they were cry-babies, and told them to keep quiet about it and to meet at the wharf at seven that evening. The tide was low then, and the piles showed high above the water. At high tide they were covered, and besides there were very few people about at that hour. At seven o’clock twenty of them gathered at the end of the wharf. They were badly scared and wished they were well out of it, but there was no stopping Mooney. The more they begged him not to do it, the more he laughed at them. He climbed the ladder to the top of the derrick alone, and stripped off every thread but his swimming tights and the scapular around his neck. The big posts rose out of the water in front of the slip--black, slimy-looking, and as pitiless as rocks.