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. He clomped up to it and turned it on its side,
testing its strength; not so good, but the bottom was still
solid and there were probably enough slats left to support
him for a minute or so.
Flint dragged the barrel to the corner near the sapling and
stood it on its open top. End to end, the barrel was nearly as
tall as he and more than half the height of the wall. Reaching
nearly above his head, he grabbed both sides of the barrel's
metal rim and tried to haul himself up. The rotted barrel
creaked and rocked dangerously toward him. He could get
no leverage.
Frowning, Flint considered the sapling again. Perhaps its
lower branches were sufficient to support him just long
enough to spring onto the barrel. He pushed the barrel so
that it stood on his right, between the sapling and the wall.
Hitching up his leather pant legs, he gingerly raised his right
foot to rest on the strongest of the limbs, about two feet off
the ground. Flint took a deep breath, grabbed the trunk of
the sapling with both hands, and thrust himself upward. It
held him for a split second, and then he slid down the
scrawny trunk of the tree, snapping every little twig on the
way to the ground
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