It was late in the winter of 186- that I arrived in Boston, having bade farewell to Old England for good and all.
It was not an easy thing to do, and it was with a wrench of the heart that I made the break-away.
I confess the separation was not entirely of my own choosing, that I left under a cloud I do not care to lift, that I had sinned the sins of youth and repented of them. Nothing more shall I say; but one thing I can never quite forget,—back in old Lancashire was I gentleman born and bred.
When I landed, less than fifty dollars had I in my pocket; but that did not fret me, for I had been assured an Englishman of good birth and breeding had but to pick and choose in the "States." All my money and most of my conceit were gone when I met Arthur Hacking a month later.
I had first stopped at a good hotel, and offered my services at genteel occupations, such as banking and school-teaching. Butbusiness men, very naturally, declined to trust a man without references who admitted that his past was not clear; and from school-teaching I was prohibited by a lamentable weakness in both mathematics and the languages. Indeed, I then realized for the first time that there were more important schools than that of the "cinder-path," and something more was needed to get on in the world than a highly cultivated pair of legs.
As my money disappeared my ideas moderated. I moved to less and less pretentious quarters, until an attic-room and a sickly fire became luxuries I was likely soon to miss.
As if it were yesterday do I remember the raw March morning, when, having spent a few cents out of my only remaining dollar, I set out to make a last desperate effort for employment other than that of the horny-handed son of toil. At noon I stood on the corner of Washington street and Cornhill, utterly at a loss what to do. My overcoat was in pawn, and an east wind, such as Boston only knows, was freezing my very marrow. The streets were full of half-melted snow and ice, and my feet were wet and cold.
As I stood there with much of the feeling and something of the attitude of a lost dog, I suddenly recognized a man to whom I hadapplied a few days before for a position as bookkeeper. I stopped him and asked bluntly for work of any kind. He offered me a job as day laborer, cutting ice on some pond several miles away; for he was the manager of an ice company. I should have accepted at once had he not, with true Yankee shrewdness, argued from my evident necessity and unskilfulness that I should work for less than a regular day's pay. At this I demurred, but should certainly have yielded had not Hacking, by some freak of fortune, passing by, caught in my speech the accents of the "old Shire."
He introduced himself without ceremony, and taking me by the arm, led me away, telling the ice-cutter to go to a place where the climate would give him no occupation, unless he changed his business.
Hacking was a big, bluff chap with a red face, and not a bit of the Yankee about him, though he was then some ten years over. When he offered me his friendship, and suggested that we could talk better in a warm place, and after a lunch, you may be sure I did not refuse him. My heart and stomach were alike empty.
All through my disappointments a stiff upper lip had I kept, but this first bit of kindness was almost too much for me, and Inearly played the woman for all my twenty years.
We adjourned to the "Bell-in-hand," where I told as little as possible of my story to him, between alternate mouthfuls of cold beef and swallows of old ale.
I confessed to him I was "dead broke," and could find no employment; that is, no employment for which I was fitted. He asked me for what I was fitted, and I told him I was blessed if I knew; that as near as I could discover day labor was about all I was good for. He clapped me on the back with a "Never say die, my lad!" but could think of no suggestion which promised me any relief, and finally invited me to drive home with him. He owned a little inn at Brighton, and promised me food and shelter for a few days until I could "gather myself together."
That this very necessary feat could be performed in a "few days" I very much doubted; but the invitation I accepted gratefully, and five o'clock found me sitting beside him on the narrow seat of a light carriage, my portmanteau tied on behind.
The road to Brighton was a very decent one, and the big roan mare he drove reeled off the miles in a way that opened my eyes to the possibilities of the trotting horse. I doubt if there was her equal in all England.
A clock was striking six when we stopped before the door of the "Traveller's Rest," and I slid off the seat on to the frozen ground, my legs so stiff that I could scarcely walk.
It was a large white house, with green blinds, and a piazza with tall white pillars in front. Cosy enough it seemed, too, with its lighted windows and its smell of hot meats; while from the bar in the corner came the sounds of a jingling piano and a good voice singing an Old Country ballad of "Jack and his Susan."
I found the inside of the house as comfortable as the outside looked inviting, and it was after a better dinner than I had eaten for many days that I sat with Hacking in a little parlor off the bar, my feet toasting at a coal fire, taking a comforting pipe and an occasional sip of the "necessary."
It did not take me long to find that Hacking was most interested in sporting matters, and our conversation gradually harked back to the cracks of the cinder-path who were in their glory when he left Lancashire, ten years before. A little information I gave him about old friends, and then we talked of those who had taken their places, Hacking bewailing the fact that there were none like the "good uns" of the past.
"How many men are there to-day," heasked, "who can do the hundred in even time?"
"There are very few good sound even-timers in all England," I answered, "and only two among the amateurs,—one a Cockney, the other a Yorkshireman. The only Lancashireman who can do the hundred in ten seconds is sitting with you to-night, and little likely to see the Old Country again for many a long year, if ever."
At this, Hacking gave me a very comprehensive look, puffed a few times vigorously at his pipe, and said, "Young fellow, boasting is a very bad habit, particularly on sporting matters. I will bet you your board bill for a month against the pipe you smoke, that you cannot show me better than eleven seconds to-morrow morning."
"Eleven seconds!" said I, "a school-boy should do that."
"Yes, eleven seconds," spoke up Hacking again. "You are not in condition and the track is slow, which will even matters up, and I'll give you the advantage of the odd fraction."
I accepted his proposition very promptly, though the pipe was the only friend I had, and a relic of old college days which I should have hated to lose. While I was certainly not in training, poverty and worry had leftme no superfluous flesh, and it must be a bad track indeed which could pull me back to eleven.
We talked and smoked until a little after ten, when I pleaded fatigue and went upstairs to bed, Hacking agreeing to call me at six o'clock the following morning, as he said he had reasons for wishing the trial private. He showed me to a very comfortable room on the second floor, which seemed luxurious after my experiences of the last two weeks.
Although I had left home without the formalities of farewell calls, and under the cover of the night, I had put in my luggage, small as it was, a pair of running shoes, trunks, and jersey. Why I did this I could not have told; certainly not in expectation of using them again, for I thought there was no sport in America, and that I had run my last race.
I think now it must have been the unconscious wish to keep one link with the good old days when I had carried the "dark blue" to the front, or thereabout, over brown cinder path and soft green sod.
I did not sleep very well for all my comfortable quarters, and when Hacking knocked at my door on the following morning I had been up an hour or more, and was clad in full running togs, having rippedfrom trunks and jersey all trace of the well-loved color.
When he looked me over his eyes glistened, for he had not seen an English athlete in a proper rig for many a long day.
We went down the back stairs and through the barn yard to a little track behind the house. It was a foggy morning and one could barely see the length of the hundred yards. I jogged once or twice over the course to warm up, and discover some of the bad spots, and then announced that I was ready for the trial.
Just then the sun came out, and as I waited at the start while Hacking went to the finish, he walked through a golden haze. It seemed a good omen. I felt more at home in my running-shoes than I had since I left the Old Country, and was once again happy, with my foot on the mark, drinking in full draughts of fresh air and waiting for the signal to be off.
This was the drop of a handkerchief, for Hacking did not care to use a pistol. There was the quick spring, the crunch of the cinders, the rush of the soft wind, the ever-quickening stride, until with one last effort I passed the post with a rush.
It was a rough trial, sure enough, but Hacking's watch showed ten and four-fifths. He announced himself satisfied, confirmedhis promise, and my worry about food and shelter was over for a full long month.
I now spent a number of days trying still to find something to do which I could fairly handle, going into the city each day, but entirely without result.
I was at no expense, however, for I walked to and from town, and took a cold lunch with me. This last was attended to by Hacking's niece, a tall, fair-haired girl, a trifle awkward yet, for she was only sixteen, but pretty, and promising to be a real beauty later.
She was very kind and gracious, as a good girl is sure to be toward one in trouble. Indeed, Jennie's sympathy soon became liking, and might perhaps have grown to something more had it received any encouragement. I do not mean by this that I was irresistible or that she was at all unmaidenly, for a more modest girl I never saw. But she was very lonely, her uncle allowing her not the least word with any of his customers. I was the first young fellow she had ever known, and sixteen is a romantic age.
Never was I beast enough to have gone further than a mild flirtation with a girl like Jennie, and now I was bound in honor not to abuse the confidence of a friend, the only one I had. There were some old Lancashire memories, also, which would not down.
I had not been long at the "Traveller's Rest" before, at Hacking's request, I went into mild training, and soon after he broached to me a plan by which I might make enough to keep me for some months, and incidentally a comfortable penny for his own purse.
This was the plan:
There was in Boston a man by the name of Simmons, who was yards better than any one in the country. Hacking plainly told me that while I ought to win, even I had no sure thing, but that he would risk a hundred dollars or more on my success; that he could get odds of at least two to one, and that he would give me one-third of the winnings.
It may be a matter of surprise that I should decline this offer,—almost an object of charity, with everything to win and nothing to lose; but there was something very disagreeable to me in the thought of turning professional. The line between amateur and professional was then, and is now, much more closely drawn on the other side than here,—and rightly so, to my mind.
While I do not propose to preach a sermon on this text, "I could, an' if I would." The jockeying in our American colleges, though very skilfully done, is bad in every way and hurts legitimate sport not a little.
I felt, I say, that in running for a wager with a professional I was forfeiting my standing as a gentleman amateur, and my claim to be considered a gentleman at all.
Jennie thought the same thing, and came mighty near a quarrel with her uncle over the matter. But he, led more by the ambition to pull off a good thing than by mercenary motives, would not give up his plan, though Jennie begged with tears in her eyes,—an argument which had never before been ineffectual.
It was only when I had lived on his bounty a full week over the month that he hinted, delicately enough (for a right good fellow was he), that my time was up. There was nothing else to do but consent, and a week later the "Boston Herald" announced that there was "a match on between Chipper Simmons and Hacking's Unknown, $200 to $100, distance one hundred yards, to be run May 1, at Hacking's Brighton track, at four o'clock in the afternoon."
I had three weeks of careful training on the wretched little track, and when the morning of May 1 dawned I was fit as possible, and able to run for my life. It was not an English May day, but more like what I was used to seeing in the Old Country a month earlier. The sky was blue, and across itdrifted soft white clouds, for there had been showers in the night. There was the smell of the moist earth, and what little wind there was blew from the south, and carried the fragrance of the pear-blossoms from a young orchard to my window as I threw it open.
I took my tub and Hacking gave me a right good rub down after; not a very artistic performance, but given with good will and with a strong hand. When it was done he looked me over with a critical eye, pronouncing me very fit, "barring a heavy pound or two;" but as I had done my work faithfully he could find no fault. He thought me a bit over-confident, and told me so; but I had never for a moment doubted my ability to defeat anything against me, and I paid little attention to his words. I was not conceited, but I knew there were not a half-dozen amateurs in all England in my class, and was sure an Old-Country crack must outclass anything the States could produce.
As early as two o'clock the spectators began to arrive, and I, following my own inclination as well as Hacking's suggestion to "get under cover," went upstairs and knocked at the door of Jennie's little sitting-room.
She greeted me most cordially with a handshake and a "good day to a good winner."She was dressed in her best gown, and had been sitting at the window to watch the arrivals. I took a seat by her side on the little chintz-cushioned window-seat, and watched with her.
To those who to-day see the throngs of well-dressed and refined people, many of them ladies, who attend college, amateur, and even professional sports, it may not be amiss to describe the spectators of my first match at Hacking's Brighton track, back in the sixties, for a typical sporting crowd it was.
They drove to the door in all sorts and descriptions of vehicles, drawn by animals as various. They soon filled the long sheds back of the house, and then a dilapidated fence was utilized for hitching-posts, and even a few trees of the young orchard.
The drivers were many of them Englishmen, for the average American was too keen after the dollars in those days to leave them for sport of any kind. The adjournment to the bar was almost unanimous, where enough money was taken for fancy drinks to make good Hacking's stake had he lost.
We could see them come swaggering up the steps, many of them carrying whip in hand, and there was much loud talk of passing Tom, Dick, or Harry on the road, with the "little bay" or the "brown colt."
We could hear them plainly, for the window was up a bit, and they did not talk in whispers.
Every now and again some one would chaff Hacking on his Unknown, telling him to "trot out the wonder," or "give us a sight of the man who runs Simmons even."
It was three o'clock when a long moving wagon labelled "Boston Belle" drove up to the door, containing Simmons, his backers and immediate attendants; and the crowd at the bar sauntered out on the piazza to meet them, and hurried back in augmented numbers to patronize still further the tall bottles behind the mahogany.
I had a glimpse of Simmons as he stepped out; but he was enveloped in a long ulster, and all I could discover was that he was extremely tall and dark.
His supporters had plenty of money, and soon ran the odds up to three to one, at which figures Hacking accommodated them to a considerable extent. I had not another supporter, however, for they all seemed to consider that Hacking had quite lost his head, and took the match as a huge joke. It was very evident that, if I broke the tape, it would be a most unpopular, as well as unexpected, win. Hacking stuck to them well, but at last got all he wanted, and declined to risk anymore. So confident was Simmons' principal backer that he proposed another match, though this was not yet pulled off, agreeing to concede three yards when we ran again.
It is wonderful what effect such talk has on a contestant, no matter how confident he may be. I had not for a moment doubted the ability of a crack man like myself to beat anything in the States at my distance, but I now began to admit the possibility of defeat, and to consider that it meant almost starvation to me. You must remember I was barely twenty years old, in a strange country, and a man trained close to the limit is particularly liable to fancies.
Jennie had been talking to me all the time in her quiet way, for she had the good old English habit of subdued speech; but little did I hear then, and now I remember almost nothing at all.
I first noticed that she had become vastly indignant at a reflection on the courage of the "Unknown who dares not show himself."
"Don't fret: you'll see him soon enough, my man," she said, with a toss of her head. She was giving me some absurd instructions about letting Simmons get the best of the start, and then sailing by him in the last few yards, so that the disappointment might be more intense, when some one in the crowdyelled out with a Yorkshire accent, "Fifteen dollars to five on the long-legged Chipper. Fifteen to five against the 'veiled lady.'"
There was a loud laugh at this, which was too much for Jennie. She jumped up, went to her little desk in the corner, and took from one of those secret drawers, which are so evident, her purse, and emptying it in her lap counted out five dollars and a few cents over. She then called the chamber-maid, gave her the five dollars, and told her to give it to Jerry, the hostler, to bet on Mr. Brown.
"'Tis an easy way to make money," she said, with an immense amount of disdain at my remonstrance.
I sat with her a while longer, she doing all the talking, for my mind was occupied, to put it mildly. When the little clock on the shelf pointed to three-thirty, I left to get into my running-togs, she giving me a good grip with her soft warm hand, and saying, "I shall see you win from the attic window."
When I reached my room, which Hacking told me to keep locked, I had a difficulty in finding the key-hole that I had never experienced, except "after dinner" or at late hours of the evening, my fingers being quite unsteady. As I stripped, my courage seemed to leave me with every garment. I remember I wondered if it would come back again when I puton my running-clothes. A little better I did feel, but at the last moment I broke the lace of my left shoe as I was pulling it tight.
Now, there is an old superstition that this means a lost race, and though I had never thought of such a foolish thing before, it seemed now a sure omen of defeat.
Indeed, I may as well confess first as last, that when Hacking knocked at my door, for the first time in all my life (and the last as well) I was in a blue funk.
Yes, a rank quitter was I on that afternoon of May 1, 186-, and I am not sure I should not have cut and run, had there been the least chance to get away.
Hacking discovered my condition at once, and grew mighty serious when his efforts to hearten me were unsuccessful. And truly the man had good reason to be serious,—a good three hundred dollars at risk, and here was his man with knees kissing and lips white.
There was nothing to do but to go on with the game, though, to make it worse, as I walked down the back stairs, I caught my spikes in a crack and nearly put myself out of the race by a bad fall before the start. It is almost an absurd thing to say, but when I picked myself up and discovered I was entirely uninjured, I cursed the ill-luck which had not allowed me to be disabled.
I did have pride enough to make a brace when I reached the open air, and flattered myself I did not show how badly I felt.
I was enveloped in a long top-coat, which hid me completely, but as we forced our way to the track through the spectators, who crowded around to get a look at me, my teeth were set to keep them from chattering. There were several offers of three to one, and one of four to one, as we passed; but Hacking said he had enough, and I think he told the truth and could have said "more." He hurried on with me to the start, where Simmons stood with a little cluster of his most ardent admirers.
As we approached, Simmons threw off his ulster, and came forward to meet me. His eye caught mine, and he smiled in a very peculiar way, discovering immediately my condition, and held out a long brown hand, without a word.
I extended mine mechanically, expecting an ordinary handshake, but greatly to my surprise he gripped it in a most vicious squeeze which brought almost a cry of agony to my lips. I learned afterwards that this was a common trick to intimidate and dishearten, but was entirely unprepared for anything of the kind, having always run against gentlemen, where all proper courtesies were observed.
The effect upon me was, however, directly opposite that expected. My trouble was not so much lack of courage as simple nervousness. With the shock of the pain this disappeared as if by magic, and in its place came at first a blind rage at the injury, which I could scarcely restrain, and then the determination to win, if I never ran again.
I was a different man. I threw off my top-coat, and facing my opponent, looked him over critically and carefully. I am free to say I could not deny him a long breath of admiration. He was over six feet tall, dark and slender, showing signs of the infusion of Indian blood which was in his veins. He was clad in a common undershirt, far from clean. Instead of trunks he wore overalls cut off just above the knees, and on his feet were a pair of well-seasoned moccasins.
Yet despite his unsportsmanlike and ludicrous costume, a better-built man for a sprinter I never saw, and I have seen some of the best.
His legs were long and lithe, well-rounded, but not too heavily muscled, and every cord and sinew showed through the brown skin as fine and firm as a bowstring. He carried not an ounce of extra weight above the belt, although his chest was full and his arms sinewy. With the strong jaw and piercing black eyes,there could be no question of their possessor's determination. I knew my work was cut out for me with a big pair of shears; that I had met a man as good if not better than myself, and I must do all I knew to win. That I was to win I had now determined,—a grand, good condition of mind for a contestant to possess.
Simmons observed me as critically as I did him, and I think that the more he saw of me the less he liked me. The contrast between us was as great as possible. I was as fair as he was dark, several inches shorter, and although without any superfluous flesh, much larger boned and muscled. Indeed I was built more like a "quarter-miler" than a sprinter. I must have bettered his weight by several pounds, and had not the top-coat covered me, and my nervousness shown itself, I question if he would have tried his little bit of brutality upon me.
While the survey of my opponent was most comprehensive, it was the work of seconds. He suddenly produced a roll of dirty bank-bills, and shook them in my face with a "See here, young fellow, I go you one hundred to fifty you're a loser." I opened my mouth to decline the bet, but my words were drowned by a torrent of mingled abuse, invective, and I know not what of "billingsgate." It endedin an endless repetition of the very conclusive sentence, "Put up, or shut up," "Put up, or shut up," which evidently gave him an extreme amount of satisfaction. I was not then the possessor of fifty cents, and was pleased when the starter silenced him with the peremptory order to "Get on your marks."
I went to the line at once, followed by Simmons, and as the crowd was being pressed back slowly behind the ropes, Hacking drew me a little aside and gave me his last instructions. "Now, my lad, listen to what I say. You've got your heart back all right, and can win if you use your head. The starter will hurry the pistol a bit, for he would like to see you win, and you need not be afraid of going away too soon. Get a yard to the good, and hold it, for if you cannot show clear at the tape, you will stand no show with the referee."
I learned afterwards that while both were supposed to be fair and unprejudiced men, Hacking had practically named the starter, and Simmons' backer the referee. The former would give me all possible advantage, and the latter would see none but my opponent at the finish without opera-glasses unless I had him plainly beaten.
To those who do not know, I will say that, in a sprint, very much depends on the start;that a contestant must be off with the pistol, or steal on it if he can. But if he gets away before the shot, he is brought back and penalized a yard for each offence. Knowing that the pistol would be a bit quick was a decided advantage to me, as I could start without fear of being set back.
As I got in position, I had made up my mind to the following facts: First, that I had the best side of the track. It was the west or farthest from the house, and well I knew every inch of the brown cinder-path that stretched before me. For the first fifty yards there was nothing to choose; but on the east side, which Simmons had taken, just before the finish was a soft spot which would trouble him. Second, the rain of the previous night had made the track quite heavy, which should also help me, as my greater strength must push me through. Third, my appearance had not been without its effect on the crowd, and I had heard a word or two of approval of my "get-up," also of the quiet and business-like way in which I had met Simmons' tirade.
We were on our marks and waiting for the word when suddenly my opponent discovered my running-shoes, and insisted that I must run in smooth soles like himself.
He kept up a wordy warfare with Hackingon this subject for at least five minutes, Hacking arguing that there were no restrictions, and that I could wear top-boots or golden slippers if I chose.
Simmons was silenced at last by the crowd, who plainly saw I would not run without spikes, and were bound to see a race.
All this controversy, together with the continued brutality of my opponent, had put me fairly on edge. I was as cool as possible, ready to do all I knew, eager to start, and growing more determined if not more confident every minute.
I had given an occasional glance at the attic window of the hotel where I could see Jennie, and every time I looked came the wave of a little handkerchief that did me a heap of good.
As I "set myself," and looked down the track, fringed on either side by the crowds of spectators pressed close against the ropes, not one of whom was friendly to me, every nerve of my body tingled, and the "fighting blood" passed down to me through many generations of good old English stock was at a fever heat.
Now I saw nothing and thought of nothing but the red worsted at the finish; I strained at the mark with every muscle tense, myweight well forward, and a buzz in my ears like the song of a huge top.
From the starter's lips came the "On your marks,"—"Ready,"—"Set," and then a bit ahead of time came the "crack" of the pistol, and we were off.
Can any one describe the mad ten seconds of a sprint? 'Tis over in a breath, and words are slow.
I doubt I had a foot the best of the start, but Simmons was a trifle "phased" by the quick shot, and did not get his speed so quickly. But when he did get it, how he came!
At fifty yards we were even, and at seventy-five (do all I could) Simmons had drawn a yard to the good.
A yell went up from the crowd. It made him think he had me beat. But had he? His easy wins had taught a fatal fault of slowing at the finish. The soft ground helped it, and the yell that gave him a false confidence drove me mad with glory. I let out the last link in me, and passing like a shot, broke the tape, a clear winner by a yard.
There was no mistake: Hacking's "Unknown" had won.
I ran much farther over the finish than did Simmons, and when I worked my way to the referee through the crowd, the decision wasannounced, and my opponent was like a fiend. He threatened the referee, and swore he would break the neck of the d—— "ringer" with the spiked shoes.
Although I was not looking for trouble, I should not have hesitated to show him I knew another game beside running if he had laid a hand on me. Thanks to his friends' persuasion, with some physical force added, he was pulled away and through the crowd.
This last had now become quite friendly to me, having gone from curiosity to admiration for the man who could beat the "Chipper" even. Some shook my hand, others patted me on the back, and many suggested an adjournment to the bar with unlimited liquid refreshment as the "proper medicine for a good winner."
They took my declining in good part, and soon Hacking forced his way to me, and tearing me from my admirers, gave me a chance to retire to my room.
I found Jennie at the top of the stairs, with tears of joy in her eyes, and a bit hysterical from excitement. Greatly to my surprise (and her own as well, when she realized what she had done), she threw both arms round my neck, and kissed me twice before she came to herself. Then there was a bright blush, aquick turn, the rustle of skirts, and the slam of the door.
I was glad enough to reach the solitude of my room, where from the window I saw Simmons bundled into the "Boston Belle" by a half-dozen dejected supporters, and with none to do him honor among the many.
"Le roi est mort, vive le roi," is as true on the cinder-path as in the great world outside.
But as I sat in my room, a winner, with the cheers still echoing in my ears, and good money awaiting me, it was a sad heart that beat under my jersey.
For the "red pottage of Esau" I had sold my birthright.
It was on a June day back in the late "sixties" that I first saw Angus MacLeod, the hero of my story of "The Hollow Hammer."
I had given a boxing-lesson to a little jeweller in South Boston who was burdened with a pugilistic ambition, and was walking leisurely homeward, enjoying the fine weather and the exercise in the open air. As I sauntered along at an easy pace, with my eyes wandering here and there, something in the day or the neighborhood reminded me of the "Old Country," and particularly the ancient town of Bury. I think it must have been the sight of the iron-foundry down the street, with the flames streaming from its chimneys.
I know I was harking back to almost forgotten scenes, and old acquaintances who had doubtless long ago forgotten me (excepting one, perhaps), when a chorus of rough voices brought me to myself with astart. The noise came from behind the high fence which shut in the iron-works yard, and I could not make out what it meant until I reached the open gate and looked in.
It was the noon hour, and there were a lot of men lounging about, eating from their tin pails, smoking short black pipes, and doing whatever else they fancied. The yard was as level and smooth as a tennis-court, but without the least sign of turf except along the fence and fringing the foundation-stones of the foundry building.
The noise came from a crowd of workmen, clustered together not far from the huge door. A row of them sat on the ground with their backs against the wall, and there were a dozen or more standing together in a bunch. These were mostly the younger men, who, not content with five hours' work since sunrise, were having a friendly test of strength in putting the shot.
They were using for the purpose an old cannon-ball, which must have weighed a bit over the sixteen pounds by the size of it.
Cannon-balls were plenty in those days, for the war was not many years over.
Now, there is always something interesting to me in the sport of a lot of workingmen. They take a bit of a lark with all the more heartiness because they do not have toomany of them. Then, again, this shot-putting contest was for the pure love of the game, and without the selfish incentives of money, prize, or glory.
There was a running fire of good-natured chaff all the time, and at each "put," good, bad, or indifferent, the contestant was guyed unmercifully for his style or distance. Failing this, some old personality was raked up, the allusion to which brought out no end of laughter and applause.
It was an interesting scene, with plenty of variety and color. The men were mostly big, brawny fellows, with sleeveless flannel shirts of red, blue, or gray, open at the breast; and grime or rust could not hide the splendid development of arms, chests, and shoulders.
The sun was warm and bright, and here and there a tin pail would catch the light, and shine as clear, I warrant, as ever the shield of a good knight, back in the old days when there were sterner sports than tossing an iron shot. Many a good man could I see, but at the game they were trying they had much to learn. 'Twas a case of "bull beef," and little more.
I watched them a few minutes, but was about to move on when there appeared at the door of the foundry a young fellow who caught my eye at once.
He was stripped to the waist, fresh from a struggle with the stubborn iron, and his body was drenched and shining with sweat. His arms and shoulders were round and firm; but there was no abnormal development, or sign of a bound muscle, and he stood with an ease that proved good legs under him, though hidden by the thick corduroys. His hair was light and curly, and his face was smooth and clean cut.
Many bigger and some stronger men have I seen, but none whose proportions were so perfect.
Among the few remembrances of my books is that dialogue of Plato which describes the sensations of Socrates at first seeing the beautiful youth, Charmides. Well (may Socrates forgive me the comparison), I had the same feeling when I first looked at Angus MacLeod on that June day, back in the "sixties." Barring the difference in costume, and the grime which a little water would remove, I believe they were alike as two peas.
The lad (he looked scarcely twenty years of age for all his development) stood a moment or two in the doorway, watching with an amused smile a big fellow put the shot a scant twenty feet, after an enormous amount of effort. Then he was noticed bysome one who called out, "Come here, Mac, you porridge-eater, and show them how to do it."
At this he laughed, shook his head, and would not budge. But the call was taken up by others, with a lot of chaff, like, "The lad's bashful," "A Scotch puddler's always shy except on pay-day," and a plenty more like it.
At last a young fellow in a blue jersey, and an old chap, the color and material of whose shirt were alike doubtful, took each an arm, and led him, holding back a bit and laughing, to the circle within which the shot lay.
He picked it up, dropped it while he drew his narrow belt a hole or two tighter, and then picked it up again. He rolled it a bit in his hand, raised it two or three times from his shoulder high above his head, balanced a moment on his right leg, with the left lifted, and then, with that easy wrist and hand motion, and that little "flick" at the end, he sent the old cannon-ball a good two yards farther than any who had tried.
It was a right good "put," though not a phenomenal one, and hardly a fault could I find with the style, barring a little failure to get the full turn of the body.
Almost as soon as the shot landed, and before the mingled applause and good-naturedchaffing were over, he left them with a parting joke, and disappeared through the door, going back to his waiting furnace. This was my first sight of Angus MacLeod.
I looked him up a few days later, got acquainted easily, and in fact hit it off right well with him from the beginning. I was just enough older for him to look up to me a bit in other matters beside athletics, and on this last subject he gave me credit for possessing all the knowledge in the market. I learned that he had been in this country some four years, that he lived with an uncle, one of the pillars of a Scotch Presbyterian church, and that Angus was himself a churchman, devout and regular in his habits.
He had taken to athletics, with no other preparation than the school-boy sports of old Aberdeen, making a specialty of the "shot-put" and "hammer-throw."
This last was his favorite sport, and by dint of regular practice in an open lot back of his house he was able to show about ninety feet as a best performance. He improved this at once under my instruction, working up to a regular hundred feet in a couple of weeks. This pleased him very much, and he took kindly to my suggestion that he enter some open competition, and see what he could do in a contest.
Indeed, he was quite confident that he could give a good showing, making much of the fact that the MacLeods had been noted for their strength for centuries. Many stories he told me of old John M'Dhoil-vic-Huishdon, from whom he claimed to have descended. This John was the head of the MacLeods of Lewis. He lived in the days of James VI., and, though a man of small stature, was of matchless strength. Some of the tales, I confess, I should have doubted, had not Angus been both a Scotchman and a church member of good standing.
It was quite easy for us to choose an opportunity for Mac's début, as there were some very convenient sports only a few weeks ahead.
These games, Scotch and otherwise, were the principal attraction at an annual excursion of Caledonian societies, comprising all those within a radius of one hundred miles of Boston.
Purses were small, but the enthusiasm great; and many a canny Scot, under the influence of a "wee drappie," would back an impossible winner for all his pockets might hold.
These were the good old days of Duncan Ross and Captain Daily, and at one of these Caledonian excursions there afterward occurredthat never-to-be-forgotten wrestling bout on the deck of a boat moored in the lake. So fierce was the struggle that the men worked overboard, and neither being willing to break hold, they were well filled with water, and in fact half-drowned before they separated.
Angus belonged to one of the Boston clans, and naturally chose these Caledonian games for his first appearance, working hard, training faithfully, and saying nothing, for a very quiet chap was Mac. If all the men I have trained had been as easy to handle as MacLeod, I should have one or two less gray hairs than I now possess. Unfortunately, church members are not in as large a percentage as I would wish on the cinder-path.
Now, I had at first no intention of pulling a dollar out of the affair, except my regular fee for training. Even this I at first declined, wishing to help my friend purely out of friendship. Mac would not have it, however, and as his pay was high, I allowed him to have his way.
I had now been making a business of training athletes for nearly a year, getting a good living out of it, and had at the beginning a nice little nest-egg in the bank, ready for a rainy day.
Exactly how this was accumulated I do not care to say. These tales are in no senseconfessions, and I shall avoid the "strutting I" as much as possible.
After my defeat of "Chipper" Simmons, at Hacking's Brighton track, there were a couple of years passed not at all to my liking, though profitably enough for one of small ideas. I took on matches wherever they promised a dollar. I ran everybody, and every distance, from a fifty-yard dash to a mile run, and almost invariably won, largely because of the pains I took with myself, and my careful training. I learned all the tricks of the trade, gave close finishes always, did an artistic "fainting act," and made myself a subject of regretful, not to say painful, remembrance to a large part of the sporting fraternity.
They stood it all right for a couple of years, but the summer before I met MacLeod I suddenly discovered I had about squeezed the orange dry. They had, very naturally, grown more and more shy of me, until it had become impossible to obtain a match, except under prohibitive conditions. I tried giving good men eight yards in the "hundred" and one hundred yards in the mile for a while, but discovered it was a hard business, with nothing in it. My only profit, as far as I could see, was to run crooked, and fake a race or two, but at this, though not over-nice, I drew the line.
I was willing to underrate my powers, and fool the fancy on my condition; to win by a scant yard with pretended effort, in order to pull on my opponent to another race; but to back him on the sly and lie down, to pull money from my friends, I could not. A gentleman I might not be, but honest I would be still. Indeed, despite the "winning way" I had, my reputation was of the best as a rare, good runner, as a square man who gave his backers a straight run for their money, and as the most knowing man in the States concerning work and training for the cinder-path.
On this last I made up my mind to trade. I announced my absolute retirement as a contestant, and my intention to make a business of training and handling others.
My prices startled them a bit at the beginning, but after I had made a few winners out of almost impossible timber, I was kept fairly well occupied. When the winter put a stop to my out-of-doors work, I became instructor in a gymnasium, and gave lessons in boxing and fencing. I even prepared one man for a ring contest, which he won, thanks to his perfect condition, after acting as a chopping-block to a better boxer for a couple of hours, this affair satisfying me at once and forever with the prize ring.
At the coming of the spring I found my book very well filled, and would by June have been quite content to have trained Mac with no recompense whatever.
Yet I had no objections to make money from others, and discovered a very fair opportunity, as I thought, about two weeks before the games. I then received a bit of information that there was a dark horse grooming for the hammer throw, in the person of an Irishman by the name of Duffy. He was an enormous fellow, as strong as an ox, could do nearly one hundred feet, and the tip made him a sure winner.
Now, I was very confident I knew better, though ninety feet, in those days, was phenomenal for an amateur, and a throw of one hundred had not been made in any previous contest. The best of the news was kept for the last, and that was that Duffy had plenty of friends with good money to back him.
I figured at once that MacLeod could just about call the trick, that being a smaller man would help the odds, and that, properly managed, there was a pretty penny in it.
Mac was now doing from one hundred to one hundred and five in the most consistent manner, and I made up my mind to plunge on him a bit, keeping quiet so that Duffy'sfriends might show their hands first. This was easy enough, for Mac did all his work after supper in the vacant lot back of his house, where no one could pull a tape over his throws. It was prudent, also, for MacLeod had very rigid ideas about betting (gambling he called it), and would undoubtedly have protested, if he had not declined to show at all.
Duffy's friends began very cautiously with small figures, and I took all that showed through a third party. When one hundred dollars was promptly covered, however, they made up their minds there was something else good, and became a bit shy.
I let them alone until the evening before the excursion, when I sallied into the Duffy neighborhood, and at one to two offered to produce a man weighing under one hundred and seventy pounds who would win against all. Now, a hammer-thrower of this weight is rare, and I found all the money I cared to cover. Indeed, I exceeded my limit a trifle. Then I wandered over to Mac's field, pulled the tape over his throw of one hundred and eight, and went home and to sleep, for not a grain of anxiety had I over the result. I doubt if I should have given five per cent. to be insured a winner.
The day dawned, fine and hot. We wentdown from Boston a good three hundred strong, men, women, and children, the last turning out a whole clan by themselves. There were bagpipes squealing, babies crying, and a Babel of rough Scotch tongues. Tartans were displayed in all the colors of the rainbow. Some were content to show only a tie, ribbon, or shawl, but a fair percentage were in full Highland costume, and far from comfortable many of them looked.
The dress is wonderfully picturesque, and nothing is more becoming to an athletic man with straight legs and strong brown knees. But for a petty tradesman with legs like pipe-stems, knock-kneed, and ghastly white it is particularly trying, and many of the gallant Scots looked as if they would like to don the protecting "breeks" to which they had become accustomed.
We all piled into the hot and dusty cars, and after an hour and a half were glad to get a breath of fresh air as we steamed down the bay.
Indeed, when we reached the "Point," a little before noon, I was loath to go ashore, for the trees on a ridge of land cut off the wind, and the place was like a furnace.
Nothing looked comfortable but a pair of bronze lions who flanked the roadway to the hotel, and had they been alive I am surethey would have found the day altogether too tropical.
I could see the crowds flocking around the swings, merry-go-rounds, and the monkey cage, and there was a motley crowd in hired bathing-suits enjoying a dip in the salt water. Of these last only was I in the least envious.
The clans, immediately upon landing, formed in procession, and marched off in the broiling sun, a half-dozen pipers playing "The Campbells are coming" as loudly as possible, skirling like so many pigs under a gate.
The most conspicuous figure was an old fellow who blew as if his life depended on the effort, and until I feared he would burst his bagpipe if he did not rupture a blood-vessel first.
He seemed to feel that the world was looking at him, and he was well conscious of its admiration. He was big-boned, loose-jointed, and so sandy that it was a riddle to guess his age. His shoulders were badly rounded, but he straightened up every few seconds in an abortive effort to appear erect on this occasion, if never again. He was clad in full Highland costume, even to dirk and claymore,—a rather unusual accompaniment, and dangerous as well, for a Scot on amerry-making where Scotch whiskey and Scotch ale mingle freely. He wore the MacNab tartan, and the kilt looked as if it had been slept in, all twisted and wrinkled.
As the clans marched up the hill and between the lions, I could see the bright red tartans of the Frasers, the black and green of the Gordons, and the beautiful parti-colors of the Stewarts. There were many others, all showing bright in the sun; and there was a lift to the heels of the marchers which nothing could have caused but the shrill notes of the bagpipes. Indeed, they were enough to start the sluggish blood in my veins, though I suppose my ancestors had long years ago heard the same sounds with resentment, as the Scots swarmed over the border. As a parlor instrument I should admit it had its superiors, but for strong men going to battle I doubt if it has its equal.
There were all kinds of men in the crowd, from the gray-haired veteran to the little fellow, born on American soil, who had never seen the tartan kilts except on a holiday. There were a number of contestants in the line, with strong, athletic figures, but not one could compare with Angus, in the yellow and black of the MacLeods, as he marched, almost the last. I saw the girls had their eyes on him, though Mac neither noticed nor cared,for he thought them "kittle cattle," and was much fonder of handling hammer and shot.
I had seen little of Angus since the start, for he was a clan officer and had many duties, but found him, to my surprise, not in the least nervous, and quite confident of winning. Did not old John M'Dhoil-vic-Huishdon outclass all competitors in the old days, and was not Angus MacLeod a lineal descendant, to whom had come the family strength?
He said he had heard that there had been considerable money bet on him to win, which he deplored, and that he would not have gone into the thing at all had he foreseen it. I told him he was very foolish, for a man might bet how long a Sunday sermon would last, and that if he did not risk anything himself, not to trouble himself about others. Though unable to argue, he shook his head, and was, I saw, uneasy, but I had no fear of his drawing out at this late day.
When the crowd disappeared, I went to the hotel, and engaged a quiet room, on the cool side of the house, where Angus joined me as soon as the procession broke ranks.
I made him lie down a little while, gave him a sponge and rub-down, and after a good lunch, such as a man should eat who expects soon to call upon the best powers of his body, he pronounced himself feeling strong enoughto throw the hammer into the bay. We could see the crowd, contestants and all, file into the long dining-rooms, where "clam-bakes" were served. A very nice lunch for an excursionist, but about the most awful diet possible for an athlete, particularly if he gorge himself in a laudable ambition to get the full value of his fifty cents.
We waited until it was after two o'clock, and found the games already started when we arrived at the place called in compliment the "athletic grounds." It was simply an enclosure roped off from an open field; track there was none, except as the feet of contestants had worn off the turf and the sun had baked the surface hard. There were no seats, and we found our way with some difficulty through the spectators, who crowded a dozen deep all the way round, and tested the strength of the rope and the firmness of the wooden posts through which it was drawn. An eager, hot, and perspiring crowd it was, jostling, pushing, and elbowing, and the last half-dozen rows might as well have been in the Orkneys, as far as seeing the sports was concerned. As usual the tall and strong were in front, and the short and weak were behind.
We found the enclosure full of contestants and their friends, the latter an insupportable nuisance, in everybody's way, not exceptingtheir own. We saw Duffy standing with a little knot of henchmen, and they gave Mac a critical glance as he walked by my side. It had leaked out in some way who my man was, and the interest in him was great. They knew I was not in the habit of taking up anything unless it was good, and some of Mac's friends from the foundry had got a day off, with their last pay envelopes with them.
All the officials and two-thirds of the crowd were Caledonians, but the contests were nearly all open, and there was a large number of other nationalities represented, particularly the Irish.
Of system there was next to none, changes were frequent, and orders given and countermanded in the same breath. The noise was deafening and the heat insupportable. The dust was like a good Scotch snuff as far as sneezing properties were concerned, and of about the same color.
We were just in time to see the "fat men's race," in which the contestants ran themselves almost into apoplexies. I am sure some of these mountains of flesh must have permanently injured themselves, and endangered their lives by their exertions.
I do not pretend to remember all the contests that followed, but there were opportunities for every one, man, woman, and child,old or young, to distinguish himself. Beside the regular sprints, runs, jumps, and weight contests, there were "sack," "wheelbarrow," "potato," and "three-legged" races, all opportunities for great laughter and applause.
I ordered Mac back to the hotel when we learned that the "hammer-throw" was the very last event, and only sent for him when the afternoon had nearly dragged itself out.
The last casts were then being made at "tossing the caber," which, being the most characteristic Caledonian game of all, had a most formidable list. Indeed, Angus was much disappointed that he had not entered, in which feeling I did not at all join, for I wanted him to save all his strength.
I remember now a little bandy-legged fellow in a crazy-looking kilt who struggled with the heavy log, which he could scarcely lift, let alone toss. He turned to me after a superhuman effort, his face aglow with pride and exertion, and remarked breathlessly, "Rinnin's weel eneugh for laddies; thot's the sport of a mon."
The "hammer-throw" had been left for the last, as I was informed, because none would leave until it was over, thus ensuring a full attendance until the end. The reason the "hammer-throw" was so popular was because there was more money on it than allthe other events combined, also because of the race feeling excited by the nationalities of the two most-favored contestants.
Perhaps a third of the spectators were Irish, and being more aggressive and outspoken, were almost as much in evidence as the Scotch themselves. Indeed, the applause when an Irishman won (and they had more than their proportion of firsts that day) was as loud as at the victory of a Scot.
In the "hammer-throw" there were a scant half-dozen entries, the reputed prowess of Duffy and MacLeod disheartening the less ambitious. I was surprised to see among them old Sandy MacNab, the piper, but learned that he had been a famous man with the weights, and had pulled off the event here only last year. Indeed, for all his age (and more than twenty was he) he was a good man yet despite his cadaverous appearance. He had for years pulled money out of these Caledonian games, although the amount of his winnings had diminished with his increasing years.
To-day he had backed himself to win the "Old Men's Race," and won easily, but unfortunately stood to lose all he had made, and more too, in the "hammer-throw."
In making his book to get second or better, he thought he had been remarkably conservative,but receiving startling information concerning Duffy and Mac when it was too late, had found it impossible to hedge. He went into the contest expecting to lose, but resolved to make a try for his money all the same. His contortions were wonderful, and convulsed the crowd every time he threw, although he was serious enough, and succeeded in getting into the finals with nearly ninety feet.
I shall never forget how the old fellow threw down his bonnet in the dust, spit on his hands, and braced himself for his first trial. There was a little crowd around the measurer, who stood a good one hundred and twenty feet away. These MacNab noticed just before he threw, and insisted that they "gang awa oot o' dainger" before he would make his try, although there was just as great chance of his hitting the flag-staff of the hotel.
After he had finished his dialogue with the crowd, in which he held his own, and more, he grasped the handle again with his long, bony fingers. At first swinging very slowly, then faster and faster, until with a double twist that made his kilt stand out like a ballet-dancer's skirt about his long, knee-kissing legs, he gave a grunt and a gasp, and let go. He watched the hammer throughthe air with bulging eyes, and when it landed, ran after, and argued with the measurer over an extra half-inch in a maddening fashion. Sandy was a privileged character, however, and had a roar of applause every time he tried.
When MacLeod came up for his first throw, he caught the crowd immediately, so handsome and modest was he. He found particular favor with the "ladies," and not alone did I hear "Eh, but he's a braw laddie," but one little Irish girl, close to the ropes, with blue eyes and the proverbial smudge under them, set an example of cosmopolitan freedom by clapping violently.
Yes, a right well-looking man was MacLeod that day, as he twisted his fingers round the hammer-handle and prepared to throw. He had a fair, open face, well colored by the sun; indeed, darker was it than the hair that curled round his forehead. His arms and shoulders were splendidly developed, and his legs brown, and corded like a distance runner's. So well-proportioned was he that he did not look the twelve stone which he really weighed, and there were murmurs of applause when he threw the hammer ninety-eight feet in his first trial, Duffy having shown but ninety-six just before him. Neither bettered in their second attempts, but when Duffysent the hammer over ninety-nine feet in his third, putting into the effort all the enormous strength of which he was master, a yell went up from his well-wishers which did his heart good, and he came as near smiling as was possible for so surly a fellow. There are no supporters on earth like an Irish crowd; they are hopeful to the last, and many an event has an Irishman won, under the inspiration of the cheers of his adherents.
Less loud, though not less hearty, was the applause when Mac sent the hammer one hundred and one and a fraction, in the faultless style I had taught him. Not the equal of Duffy in strength (for the Irishman was almost a giant in height and girth), he knew how to use all he had to the best advantage, and he was working himself slowly up to his best effort to follow.
As I have already said, MacLeod, Duffy, and MacNab were left in the finals. Duffy was grave and quiet when he made the first of his last three throws, and grew graver yet when the measurer gave him less than before, and while Sandy was doing his contortion act, twisting, jumping, and breathing hard, like a man possessed, he had a conference with two of his principal backers who stood by themselves apart.
I was feeling very comfortable, for Duffy,I was sure, had done all he was capable of; and when Mac did one hundred and four I decided I was on "Easy Street," and began to count my earnings. All the time I kept my eyes about me, and was surprised to see the look of confidence with which the Irishman came up for his next to last turn. He planted his feet firmly, swung his huge arms round his head until he grew black in the face, and then a last effort, and the hammer flew through the air.
I knew the moment it left his hand that it would best any throw made, but I was astounded when the measurer announced over one hundred and eleven. Where was my money? I could not believe it possible, for I had sure information that Duffy had never quite covered one hundred feet, and while Mac should do his one hundred and eight or a trifle better, I did not believe he could make the one hundred and eleven to save his life.
It was while Angus was making his next to last throw that a sudden suspicion came to me. I was probably wrong, but my money was in danger, and no chance would I throw away to save it. This time Mac was dead in earnest, and getting his strength in just right threw only an inch short of one hundred and ten. I waited until Duffy was about to make his last, and then walked down just in timeto be by the side of the measurer when the hammer landed. I saw the tape, it was over one hundred and twelve; and the yell that followed the announcement was enough to madden one who stood to lose a half-year's earnings.
I picked the hammer up, and tested it carefully, balancing it in my hand, and as I held it there came to me a grain of hope. Was it light, or was I led astray by my wish? I had seen it weighed by the judge; the head looked full size, and the handle all right. In those days the handles were of wood weighing about a pound, and made the total seventeen pounds or close to it. I had carried the hammer half-way back, when Mac came to me and said, his eyes black with determination, "'Tis my last chance, but I'll beat him yet." I gave him no answer, but walked on until Duffy saw me. I was testing his hammer in my hand, doubtful whether or not to ask for a reweighing, when I caught his eye, and decided.
MacNab saw me too, discovering something queer about my face, and he and Duffy were at my side together, the latter holding out his hand to take the hammer, his face flushed and his voice husky, as he asked "What in h——" I was trying to do. MacNab said something, just what it was I do not know, but it showed his disposition to supportme, for he was on the anxious seat as well as myself.
To Duffy's demand I answered as calmly as possible, "I believe this hammer under weight, and ask for a reweighing," holding it behind me meanwhile. At this there was a "hurly-burly" at once, Duffy's friends surrounding me, and had it not been for MacNab's support I should have been in difficulties. The old man did not know what fear was; no one dared lay a hand on him, because of his popularity with the crowd, and he drowned all other voices with his shrill pipings.
He demanded a reweighing much more forcibly than I. "I winna gie it 'tell the weght iss weghted. I winna, na, I winna," he yelled again and again, like a broken-winded bagpipe for all the world.
Mr. Fraser, the judge, and a very fair man, saw that he must do something, and silenced the uproar, although old Sandy kept up a muttering all the time. "You saw me weigh the hammer," said he, looking at me. "I called it seventeen pounds one ounce, and you made no protest."—"I do not cast any reflections on you," I answered, "but this hammer which has just been thrown is certainly not a sixteen-pound hammer. I can prove my statement, and ask that all throws with it be disallowed." Then MacNab, whostood between me and Duffy, with one hand on the handle, set up such an infernal din that Fraser immediately consented, and I handed him the hammer. At this Duffy changed his tune, and proposed to withdraw, saying he would not have any dirty Englishman nor sneaking Scotchman doubt his word. He shook his huge fist in Fraser's face and demanded the immediate return of his property. In this he made a mistake, for the judge was as full of fire as a little Scotch terrier, and he promptly walked to the scales and laid the hammer on them.
Then there was a dead silence. MacLeod came to my side, for the lad had not spoken a word since the row began; not that he lacked pluck, but he had a mortal antipathy to a windy dispute, and knew I was fully competent to protect his interests. The weight was on the seventeen-pound mark, but the hammer did not lift it, and I saw by the eager faces that the crowd was becoming suspicious. The little judge pushed the weight to sixteen pounds, and still the beam hung; and only at fifteen-eight did it rise. Everybody looked at Duffy's flushed face, and Fraser demanded an explanation, though there did not seem to be much that could be said.
The tall Irishman hemmed and hawed a bit, and then said huskily, "Faith, I think itmust have struck a stone and knocked off a piece." Despite our seriousness, this ingenious explanation was too much for us, and the whole crowd laughed until it could laugh no more, Duffy sneaking off in the confusion.
Old man MacNab became almost delirious in his joy at saving his money in this miraculous way, for Duffy's disqualification put the lank Scott second; and after he had loaded me with acknowledgments, he left, with the laudable ambition of getting outside all the whiskey on the premises. The last I saw of him, his long legs were swinging gayly to the notes of the Highland fling, with a fair prospect of winning the prize.
As the crowd flocked back to the hotel, Fraser thanked me for my firmness which had led to the discovery of the fraud, and I declined to accept any, as I had only watched my money. I did agree to take the light hammer, and he gave it to me together with another which had been picked up from underneath the feet of the crowd.
On the way home MacLeod and myself compared them carefully, and were greatly puzzled. They were almost identical; the size and form of the heads, the turn of the handles, and the initials "P. D." burned into the ends were alike in both. We could not understand where the difference in the weightscame in, until we arrived at my rooms. Here I knocked out the handle of the light hammer, and found the centre of the head hollowed out in a most artistic manner, and the mystery was solved. I have no doubt but that Duffy did not use this until he was forced to do so, and that he threw the full-weight hammer which Fraser tested for the first four trials. Only when he was sure that MacLeod, "the little Scottie," was a better man, and his (Duffy's) money was as good as gone, did he fall back on the artistic reproduction, which could have been easily handed to him by a friend in the crowd.
I confess I made a very pretty penny out of this transaction, and it was all the more welcome because of the fright I had been in over it. Poor Mac was not so fortunate, for although he positively declined to take a penny from me, he was given credit at the church for having gambled disgracefully, and was near being expelled for it.
If this should seem at all an improbable tale, I will assure you that much the same incident occurred among our gentlemanly friends, the college athletes, at a comparatively recent date, although it was kept quiet in deference to somebody's feelings, and not exploited as was the "hollow hammer" back in the late "sixties."