Part 42 (1/2)

”One hundred and twenty-one!” said Duncan Ross, shaking his head doubtfully, but he was too much of a gentleman to do other than wait for the judges' decision.

”One hundred and twenty-one feet and two inches,” was the final verdict, and from the crowd there rose a roar that rolled like thunder around the hills.

”It's a fluke, and so it is!” said McGee with another oath.

”Give me your hand, lad,” said Duncan Ross, evidently much roused. ”It iss a n.o.ble throw whateffer, and worthy of beeg Rory himself. I haf done better, howeffer, but indeed I may not to-day.”

It was indeed a great throw, and one immediate result was that there was no holding back in the contest, no playing 'possum. Mack's throw was there to be beaten, and neither McGee nor even Black Duncan could afford to throw away a single chance. For hammer-throwing is an art requiring not only strength but skill as well, and not only strength and skill but something else most difficult to secure. With the strength and the skill there must go a rhythmic and perfect coordination of all the muscles in the body, with exactly the proper contracting and relaxing of each at exactly the proper moment of time, and this perfect coordination is a result rarely achieved even by the greatest throwers, but when achieved, and with the man's full strength behind it, his record throw is the result.

Meantime Cameron was hovering about his man in an ecstasy of delight.

”Oh, Mack, old man!” he said. ”You got the swing perfectly. It was a dream. And if you had put your full strength into it you would have made a world record. Why, man, you could add ten feet to it!”

”It is a fluke!” said McGee again, as he took his place.

”Make one like it, then, my lad,” said Black Duncan with a grim smile.

But this McGee failed to do, for his throw measured ninety-seven feet.

”A very fair throw, McGee,” said Black Duncan. ”But not your best, and nothing but the best will do the day appearingly.”

With that Black Duncan took place for his throw. One--twice--thrice he swung the great hammer about his head, then sent it whirling into the air. Again a mighty shout announced a great throw and again a dead silence waited for the measurement.

”One hundred and fourteen feet!”

”Aha!” said Black Duncan, and stepped back apparently well satisfied.

It was again Mack's turn.

”You have the privilege of allowing your first throw to stand,” said Dr.

Kane.

”Best let it stand, lad, till it iss beat,” advised Black Duncan kindly.

”It iss a n.o.ble throw.”

”He can do better, though,” said Cameron.

”Very well, very well!” said Duncan. ”Let him try.”

But Mack's success had keyed him up to the highest pitch. Every nerve was tingling, every muscle taut. His first throw he had taken without strain, being mainly anxious, under Cameron's coaching, to get the swing, but under the excitement incident to the contest he had put more strength into the throw than appeared either to himself or to his coach.

Now, however, with nerves and muscles taut, he was eager to increase his distance, too eager it seemed, for his second throw measured only eighty-nine feet.

A silence fell upon his friends and Cameron began to chide him.

”You went right back to your old style, Mack. There wasn't the sign of a swing.”

”I will get it yet, or bust!” said big Mack between his teeth.

McGee's second throw went one hundred and seventeen feet. A cheer arose from his backers, for it was a great throw and within five feet of his record. Undoubtedly McGee was in great form and he might well be expected to measure up to his best to-day.