"One hundred and twenty-one! It is a lie!" cried McGee with an oath, striding out to personally supervise the measuring.
"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 noble 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 noble 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.
Black Duncan's second throw measured one hundred and nineteen feet seven, which was fifteen feet short of his record and showed him to be climbing steadily upward.
Once more the turn came to Mack, and once more, with almost savage eagerness, he seized the hammer preparatory to his throw.
"Now, Mack, for heaven's sake go easy!" said Cameron. "Take your swing easy and slow."
But Mack heeded him not. "I can beat it!" he muttered between his shut teeth, "and I will." So, with every nerve taut and every muscle strained to its limit, he made his third attempt. It was in vain. The measure showed ninety-seven feet six. A suppressed groan rose from the Maplehill folk.
"A grand throw, lad, for a beginner," said Black Duncan.
The excitement now became intense. By his first throw of one hundred and twenty-one feet two, Mack remained still the winner.
But McGee had only four feet to gain and Black Duncan less than two to equal him. The little secretary went skipping about aglow with satisfaction and delight. The day was already famous in the history of Canadian athletics.
Again McGee took place for his throw, his third and last. The crowd gathered in as near as they dared. But McGee had done his best for that day, and his final throw measured only one hundred and five feet.
There remained yet but a single chance to wrest from Mack Murray the prize for that day, but that chance lay in the hands of Duncan Ross, the cool and experienced champion of many a hard-fought fight. Again Black Duncan took the hammer. It was his last throw.
He had still fifteen feet to go to reach his own record, and he had often beaten the throw that challenged him to-day, but, on the other hand, he had passed through many a contest where his throw had fallen short of the one he must now beat to win. A hush fell upon the people as Black Duncan took his place. Once--twice--and, with ever increasing speed, thrice he swung the great hammer, then high and far it hurtled through the air.
"Jerusalem!" cried Mack. "What a fling!"
"Too high," muttered Black Duncan. "You have got it, lad, you have got it, and you well deserve it."
"Tut-tut, nonsense!" said Mack impatiently. "Wait you a minute."
Silent and expectant the crowd awaited the result. Twice over the judges measured the throw, then announced "One hundred and twenty-one feet." Mack had won by two inches.
