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There never was such a
Dominion Day for weather since the first
Dominion Day was born. Of this "Fatty" Freeman was fully assured.
Fatty Freeman was a young man for whose opinion older men were
accustomed to wait. His person more than justified his praenomen,
for Mr. Harper Freeman, Jr., was undeniably fat. "Fat, but fine
and frisky," was ever his own comment upon the descriptive
adjective by which his friends distinguished him. And fine and
frisky he was; fine in his appreciation of good eating, fine in his
judgment of good cattle and fine in his estimate of men; frisky,
too, and utterly irrepressible. "Harp's just like a young pup,"
his own father, the Reverend Harper Freeman, the old Methodist
minister of the Maplehill circuit, used to say. "If Harp had a
tail he would never do anything but play with it." On this,
however, it is difficult to hold any well based opinion. Ebullient
in his spirits, he radiated cheeriness wherever he went and was at
the bottom of most of the practical jokes that kept the village of
Maplehill in a state of ferment; yet if any man thought to turn a
sharp corner in business with Mr. Harper Freeman, Jr., he invariably
found that frisky individual waiting for him round the corner with a
cheery smile of welcome, shrewd and disconcerting. It was this
cheery shrewdness of his that made him the most successful cattle
buyer in the county and at the same time secretary of the Middlesex
Caledonian Society. As secretary of this society he was made
chiefly responsible for the success of the Dominion Day picnic and,
as with everything that he took hold of, Fatty toiled at the
business of preparation for this picnic with conscientious zeal,
giving to it all his spare hours and many of his working hours for
the three months preceding. It was due solely to his efforts that so many distinguished county
magnates appeared eager to lend their patronage. It needed but a
little persuasion to secure the enthusiastic support of the
Honourable J. J. Patterson, M.P.P., and, incidentally, the handsome
challenge cup for hammer-throwing, for the honourable member of
Parliament was a full-blooded Highlander himself and an ardent
supporter of "the games." But only Fatty Freeman's finesse could
have extracted from Dr. Kane, the Opposition candidate for
Provincial Parliamentary honours, the cup for the hundred yards
race, and other cups from other individuals more or less deeply
interested in Dominion, Provincial, and Municipal politics. The
prize list secured, it needed only a skillful manipulation of the
local press and a judicious but persistent personal correspondence
to swell the ranks of the competitors in the various events, and
thus ensure a monster attendance of the people from the
neighbouring townships and from the city near by. The weather being assured, Fatty's anxieties were mostly allayed,
for he had on the file in his office acceptance letters from the
distinguished men who were to cast the spell of their oratory over
the assembled multitude, as also from the big men in the athletic world who had entered for the various events in the programme of
sports. It was a master stroke of diplomacy that resulted in the
securing for the hammer-throwing contest the redoubtable and famous
Duncan Ross of Zorra, who had at first disdained the bait of the
Maplehill Dominion Day picnic, but in some mysterious way had at
length been hooked and landed. For Duncan was a notable man and
held the championship of the Zorras; and indeed in all Ontario he
was second only to the world-famous Rory Maclennan of Glengarry,
who had been to Braemar itself and was beaten there only by a
fluke. How he came to agree to be present at the Maplehill picnic
"Black Duncan" could not quite understand, but had he compared
notes with McGee, the champion of the London police force and of
various towns and cities of the western peninsula, he would
doubtless have received some enlightenment. To the skill of the
same master hand was due the appearance upon the racing list of the
Dominion Day picnic of such distinguished names as Cahill of
London, Fullerton of Woodstock, and especially of Eugene La Belle
of nowhere in particular, who held the provincial championship for
skating and was a runner of provincial fame. In the racing Fatty was particularly interested because his young
brother Wilbur, of whom he was uncommonly proud, a handsome lad,
swift and graceful as a deer, was to make his first essay for more
than local honours. The lists for the other events were equally well filled and every
detail of the arrangements for the day had passed under the
secretary's personal review. The feeding of the multitude was in
charge of the Methodist Ladies' Aid, an energetic and exceptionally
businesslike organization, which fully expected to make sufficient
profit from the enterprise to clear off the debt from their church
at Maplehill, an achievement greatly desired not only by the ladies
themselves but by their minister, the Reverend Harper Freeman, now
in the third year of his incumbency. The music was to be furnished
by the Band of the Seventh from London and by no less a distinguished
personage than Piper Sutherland himself from Zorra, former Pipe
Major of "The old Forty-twa." The discovery of another piper in
Cameron brought joy to the secretary's heart, who only regretted
that an earlier discovery had not rendered possible a pipe
competition. Early in the afternoon the crowds began to gather to MacBurney's
woods, a beautiful maple grove lying midway between the Haleys'
farm and Maplehill village, about two miles distant from each. The
grove of noble maple trees overlooking a grassy meadow provided an
ideal spot for picnicking, furnishing as it did both shade from the
sun and a fine open space with firm footing for the contestants in
the games. High over a noble maple in the centre of the grassy
meadow floated the Red Ensign of the Empire, which, with the
Canadian coat of arms on the fly, by common usage had become the
national flag of Canada. From the great trees the swings were
hung, and under their noble spreading boughs were placed the
tables, and the platform for the speech making and the dancing,
while at the base of the encircling hills surrounding the grassy
meadow, hard by the grove another platform was placed, from which
distinguished visitors might view with ease and comfort the contests upon the campus immediately adjacent. Through the fence, let down for the purpose, the people drove in
from the high road. They came in top buggies and in lumber wagons,
in democrats and in "three seated rigs," while from the city came a
"four-in-hand" with McGee, Cahill, and their backers, as well as
other carriages filled with good citizens of London drawn thither
by the promise of a day's sport of more than usual excellence or by
the lure of a day in the woods and fields of God's open country. A
specially fine carriage and pair, owned and driven by the honourable
member of Parliament himself, conveyed Piper Sutherland, with
colours streaming and pipes playing, to the picnic grounds. Warmly
was the old piper welcomed, not only by the frisky cheery secretary,
but by many old friends, and by none more warmly than by the
Reverend Alexander Munro, the douce old bachelor Presbyterian
minister of Maplehill, a great lover of the pipes and a special
friend of Piper Sutherland. But the welcome was hardly over when
once more the sound of the pipes was heard far up the side line. "Surely that will be Gunn," said Mr. Munro. Sutherland listened for a minute or two. "No, it iss not Gunn. Iss Ross coming? No, yon iss not Ross.
That will be a stranger," he continued, turning to the secretary,
but the secretary remained silent, enjoying the old man's surprise
and perplexity. "Man, that iss not so bad piping! Not so bad at all! Who
is
it?"
he added with some impatience, turning upon the secretary again. "Oh, that's Haley's team and I guess that's his hired man, a young
fellow just out from Scotland," replied the secretary indifferently.
"I am no great judge of the pipes myself, but he strikes me as a
crackajack and I shouldn't be surprised if he would make you all sit
up." But the old piper's ear was closed to his words and open only to
the strains of music ever drawing nearer. "Aye, yon's a piper!" he said at length with emphasis. "Yon's a
piper!" "I only wish I had discovered him in time for a competition," said
Fatty regretfully. "Aye," said Sutherland. "Yon's a piper worth playing against." And very brave and gallant young Cameron looked as Tim swung his
team through the fence and up to the platform under the trees where
the great ones of the people were standing in groups. They were
all there, Patterson the M.P.P., and Dr. Kane the Opposition
candidate, Reeve Robertson, for ten years the Municipal head of his
county, Inspector Grant, a little man with a massive head and a
luminous eye, Patterson's understudy and generally regarded as his
successor in Provincial politics, the Reverend Harper Freeman,
Methodist minister, tall and lank, with shrewd kindly face and a
twinkling eye, the Reverend Alexander Munro, the Presbyterian
minister, solid and sedate, slow to take fire but when kindled a
very furnace for heat. These, with their various wives and
daughters, such as had them, and many others less notable but no
less important, constituted a sort of informal reception committee
under Fatty Freeman's general direction and management. And here
and there and everywhere crowds of young men and maidens,
conspicuous among the latter Isa MacKenzie and her special friends,
made merry with each other, as brave and gallant a company of
sturdy sun-browned youths and bonnie wholesome lassies as any land
or age could ever show. "Look at them!" cried the Reverend Harper Freeman, waving his hand
toward the kaleidoscopic gathering. "There's your Dominion Day
oration for you, Mr, Patterson." "Most of it done in brown, too," chuckled his son, Harper Freeman,
Jr. "Yes, and set in jewels and gold," replied his father. "You hold over me, Dad!" cried his son. "Here!" he called to
Cameron, who was standing aloof from the others. "Come and meet a
brother Scot and a brother piper, Mr. Sutherland from Zorra, though
to your ignorant Scottish ear that means nothing, but to every
intelligent Canadian, Zorra stands for all that's finest in brain
and brawn in Canada." "And it takes both to play the pipes, eh, Sutherland?" said the
M.P.P. "Oh aye, but mostly wind," said the piper. "Just like politics, eh, Mr. Patterson?" said the Reverend Harper
Freeman. "Yes, or like preaching," replied the M.P.P. "One on you, Dad!" said the irrepressible Fatty. Meantime Sutherland was warmly complimenting Cameron on his
playing. "You haf been well taught," he said. "No one taught me," said Cameron. "But we had a famous old piper
at home in our Glen, Macpherson was his name." "Macpherson! Did he effer play at the Braemar gathering?" "Yes, but Maclennan beat him." "Maclennan! I haf heard him." The tone was quite sufficient to
classify the unhappy Maclennan. "And I haf heard Macpherson too.
You iss a player. None of the fal-de-rals of your modern players,
but grand and mighty." "I agree with you entirely," replied Cameron, his heart warming at
the praise of his old friend of the Glen Cuagh Oir. "But," he
added, "Maclennan is a great player too." "A great player? Yes and no. He has the fingers and the notes,
but he iss not the beeg man. It iss the soul that breathes through
the chanter. The soul!" Here he gripped Cameron by the arm.
"Man! it iss like praying. A beeg man will neffer show himself in
small things, but when he will be in communion with his Maker or
when he will be pouring out his soul in a pibroch then the beegness
of the man will be manifest. Aye," continued the piper, warming to
his theme and encouraged by the eager sympathy of his listener,
"and not only the beegness but the quality of the soul. A mean man
can play the pipes, but he can neffer be a piper. It iss only a
beeg man and a fine man and, I will venture to say, a good man, and
there are not many men can be pipers." "Aye, Mr. Sutherland," broke in the Reverend Alexander Munro, "what
you say is true, but it is true not only of piping. It is true
surely of anything great enough to express the deepest emotions of
the soul. A man is never at his best in anything till he is
expressing his noblest self." "For instance in preaching, eh!" said Dr. Kane.
"Aye, in preaching or in political oratory," replied the minister.
At this, however, the old piper shook his head doubtfully. "You do not agree with Mr. Munro in that?" said the M.P.P. "No," replied Sutherland, "speaking iss one thing, piping iss
another." "And that is no lie, and a mighty good thing too it is," said Dr.
Kane flippantly. "It iss no lie," replied the old piper with dignity. "And if you
knew much about either of them you would say it deeferently." "Why, what is the difference, Mr. Sutherland?" said Dr. Kane,
anxious to appease the old man. "They both are means of expressing
the emotions of the soul, you say." "The deeference! The deeferenee iss it? The deeference iss
here,
that the pipes will neffer lie." There was a shout of laughter. "One for you, Kane!" cried the Reverend Harper Freeman. "And," he
continued when the laughing had ceased, "we will have to take our
share too, Mr. Munro." But the hour for beginning the programme had arrived and the
secretary climbed to the platform to announce the events for the
day. "Ladies and gentlemen!" he cried, in a high, clear, penetrating
voice, "the speech of welcome will be delivered toward the close of
the day by the president of the Middlesex Caledonian Society, the
Honourable J. J. Patterson, M.P.P. My duty is the very simple one of announcing the order of events on the programme and of expressing
on behalf of the Middlesex Caledonian Society the earnest hope that
you all may enjoy the day, and that each event on the programme will
prove more interesting than the last. The programme is long and
varied and I must ask your assistance to put it through on schedule
time. First there are the athletic competitions. I shall
endeavour
to assist Dr. Kane and the judges in running these through without
unnecessary and annoying delays. Then will follow piping, dancing,
and feasting in their proper order, after which will come the
presentation of prizes and speeches from our distinguished visitors.
On the platform over yonder there are places for the speakers, the
officials, and the guests of the society, but such is the very
excellent character of the ground that all can be accommodated with
grand stand seats. One disappointment, and one only, I must
announce, the Band of the Seventh, London, cannot be with us
to-day." "But we will never miss them," interpolated the Reverend Alexander
Munro with solemn emphasis. "Exactly so!" continued Fatty when the laugh had subsided. "And
now let's all go in for a good old time picnic, 'where even the
farmers cease from grumbling and the preachers take a rest.' Now
take your places, ladies and gentlemen, for the grand parade is
about to begin." The programme opened with the one hundred yard flat race. For this
race there were four entries, Cahill from London, Fullerton from
Woodstock, La Belle from nowhere in particular, and Wilbur Freeman
from Maplehill. But Wilbur was nowhere to be seen. The
secretary
came breathless to the platform. "Where's Wilbur?" he asked his father. "Wilbur? Surely he is in the crowd, or in the tent perhaps." At the tent the secretary found his brother nursing a twisted ankle,
heart-sick with disappointment. Early in the day he had injured his
foot in an attempt to fasten a swing upon a tree. Every minute
since that time he had spent in rubbing and manipulating the injured
member, but all to no purpose. While the pain was not great, a race
was out of the question. The secretary was greatly disturbed and as
nearly wrathful as ever he allowed himself to become. He was set on
his brother making a good showing in this race; moreover, without
Wilbur there would be no competitor to uphold the honour of
Maplehill in this contest and this would deprive it of much of its
interest. "What the dickens were you climbing trees for?" he began
impatiently, but a glance at his young brother's pale and woe-stricken face changed his wrath to pity. "Never mind, old chap,"
he said, "better luck next time, and you will be fitter too." Back he ran to the platform, for he must report the dismal news to
his mother, whose chief interest in the programme for the day lay
in this race in which her latest born was to win his spurs. The
cheery secretary was nearly desperate. It was an ominous beginning
for the day's sports. What should he do? He confided his woe
to
Mack and Cameron, who were standing close by the platform. "It will play the very mischief with the programme. It will spoil
the whole day, for Wilbur was the sole Maplehill representative in
the three races; besides, I believe the youngster would have shown
up well." "He would that!" cried Mack heartily. "He was a bird. But is
there no one else from the Hill that could enter?" "No, no one with a chance of winning, and no fellow likes to go in
simply to be beaten." "What difference?" said Cameron. "It's all in a day's sport." "That's so," said Mack. "If I could run myself I would enter.
I
wonder if Danny would--" "Danny!" said the secretary shortly. "You know better than that.
Danny's too shy to appear before this crowd even if he were dead
sure of winning." "Say, it is too bad!" continued Mack, as the magnitude of the
calamity grew upon him. "Surely we can find some one to make an
appearance. What about yourself, Cameron? Did you ever race?"
"Some," said Cameron. "I raced last year at the Athole Games." Fatty threw himself upon him. "Cameron, you are my man! Do you want to save your country, and
perhaps my life, certainly my reputation? Get out of those
frills," touching his kilt, "and I'll get a suit from one of the
jumpers for you. Go! Bless your soul, anything you want that's
mine you can have! Only hustle for dear life's sake! Go! Go!
Go!
Take him away, Mack. We'll get something else on!" Fatty actually pushed Cameron clear away from the platform and
after him big Mack. "There seems to be no help for it," said Cameron, as they went to
the tent together. "It's awful good of you," replied Mack, "but you can see how hard
Fatty takes it, though it is not a bit fair to you." "Oh, nobody knows me here," said Cameron, "and I don't mind being a
victim." But as Mack saw him get into his jersey and shorts he began to
wonder a bit. "Man, it would be great if you should beat yon Frenchman!" he
exclaimed. "Frenchman?" "Yes! La Belle. He is that stuck on himself; he thinks he is a
winner before he starts." "It's a good way to think, Mack. Now let us get down into the
woods and have a bit of a practise in the 'get away.' How do they
start here? With a pistol?" "No," replied Mack. "We are not so swell. The starter gives
the
word this way, 'All set? Go!'" "All right, Mack, you give me the word sharp. I am out of practise
and I must get the idea into my head." "You are great on the idea, I see," replied Mack. "Right you are, and it is just the same with the hammer, Mack." "Aye, I have found that out." For twenty minutes or so Cameron practised his start and at every
attempt Mack's confidence grew, so that when he brought his man
back to the platform he announced to a group of the girls standing
near, "Don't say anything, but I have the winner right here for
you." "Why, Mr. Cameron," cried Isa, "what a wonder you are! What else
can you do? You are a piper, a dancer, a hammer-thrower, and now a
runner." "Jack-of-all-trades," laughed Perkins, who, with Mandy, was
standing near. "Yes, but you can't say 'Master of none,'" replied Isa sharply. "Better wait," said Cameron. "I have entered this race only to
save Mr. Freeman from collapse." "Collapse? Fatty? He couldn't," said Isa with emphasis. "Lass, I do not know," said Mack gravely. "He looked more hollow
than ever I have seen him before." "Well, we'll all cheer for you, Mr. Cameron, anyway," cried Isa.
"Won't we, girls? Oh, if wishes were wings!" "Wings?" said Mandy, with a puzzled air. "What for? This is a
RACE." "Didn't you never see a hen run, Mandy?" laughed Perkins. "Yes, I have, but I tell you Mr. Cameron ain't no hen," replied
Mandy angrily. "And more! He's going to win." "Say, Mandy, that is the talk," said Mack, when the laugh had
passed. "Did you hear yon?" he added to Cameron. Cameron nodded. "It is a good omen," he said. "I am going to do my best." "And, by Jingo! if you only had a chance," said Mack, "I believe
you would lick them all." At this Fatty bustled up. "All ready, eh? Cameron, I shall owe you something for this.
La
Belle kicked like a steer against your entering at the last minute.
It is against the rules, you know. But he's given in." Fatty did not explain that he had intimated to La Belle that there
was no need for anxiety as far as the "chap from the old country"
was concerned; he was there merely to fill up. But if La Belle's fears were allayed by the secretary's disparaging
description of the latest competitor, they sprang full grown into
life again when he saw Cameron "all set" for the start, and more
especially so when he heard his protest against the Frenchman's
method in the "get away." "I want you to notice," he said firmly to Dr. Kane, who was acting
as starter, "that this man gets away WITH the word 'Go' and not
AFTER it. It is an old trick, but long ago played out." Then the Frenchman fell into a rage. "Eet ees no treeck!" sputtered La Belle. "Eet ees too queeck for
him." "All right!" said Dr. Kane. "You are to start after the word 'Go.'
Remember! Sorry we have no pistol." Once more the competitors crouched over the scratch. "All set? Go!" Like the releasing of a whirlwind the four runners spring from the
scratch, La Belle, whose specialty is his "get away," in front,
Fullerton and Cameron in second place, Cahill a close third. A
blanket would cover them all. A tumult of cheers from the friends
of the various runners follows them along their brief course. "Who is it? Who is it?" cries Mandy breathlessly, clutching Mack
by the arm. "Cameron, I swear!" roars Mack, pushing his way through the crowd
to the judges. "No! No! La Belle! La Belle!" cried the Frenchman's
backers from
the city. The judges are apparently in dispute. "I swear it is Cameron!" roars Mack again in their ears, his eyes
aflame and his face alight with a fierce and triumphant joy. "It
is Cameron I am telling you!" "Oh, get out, you big bluffer!" cries a thin-faced man, pressing
close upon the judges. "It is La Belle by a mile!" "By a mile, is it?" shouts Mack. "Then go and hunt your man!" and
with a swift motion his big hand falls upon the thin face and
sweeps it clear out of view, the man bearing it coming to his feet
in a white fury some paces away. A second look at Mack, however,
calms his rage, and from a distance he continues leaping and
yelling "La Belle! La Belle!" After a few moments' consultation the result is announced. "A tie for the first place between La Belle and Cameron! Time
eleven seconds! The tie will be run off in a few minutes." In a tumult of triumph big Mack shoulders Cameron through the crowd
and carries him off to the dressing tent, where he spends the next
ten minutes rubbing his man's legs and chanting his glory. "Who is this Cameron?" enquired the M.P.P., leaning over the
platform railing. Quick came the answer from the bevy of girls thronging past the
platform. "Cameron? He's our man!" It was Mandy's voice, bold and
strong.
"Your man?" said the M.P.P., laughing down into the coarse flushed
face. "Yes, OUR man!" cried Isa MacKenzie back at him. "And a winner,
you may be sure." "Ah, happy man!" exclaimed the M.P.P. "Who would not win with such
backers? Why, I would win myself, Miss Isa, were you to back me
so. But who is Cameron?" he continued to the Methodist minister at
his side. "He is Haley's hired man, I believe, and that first girl is Haley's
daughter." "Poor thing!" echoed Mrs. Freeman, a kindly smile on her motherly
face. "But she has a good heart has poor Mandy." "But why 'poor'?" enquired the M.P.P. "Oh, well," answered Mrs. Freeman with hesitation, "you see she is
so very plain--and--well, not like other girls. But she is a good
worker and has a kind heart." Once more the runners face the starter, La Belle gay, alert,
confident; Cameron silent, pale, and grim. "All set? Go!" La Belle is away ere the word is spoken.
The
bell, however, brings him back, wrathful and less confident. Once more they stand crouching over the scratch. Once more the
word releases them like shafts from the bow. A beautiful start,
La Belle again in the lead, but Cameron hard at his heels and
evidently with something to spare. Thus for fifty yards, sixty,
yes, sixty-five. "La Belle! La Belle! He wins! He wins!" yell his backers
frantically, the thin-faced man dancing madly near the finishing
tape. Twenty yards to go and still La Belle is in the lead.
High
above the shouting rises Mack's roar. "Now, Cameron! For the life of you!" It was as if his voice had touched a spring somewhere in Cameron's
anatomy. A great leap brings him even with La Belle. Another,
another, and still another, and he breasts the tape a winner by a
yard, time ten and three fifths seconds. The Maplehill folk go
mad, and madder than all Isa and her company of girl friends.
"I got--one--bad--start--me! He--pull--me back!" panted La Belle
to his backers who were holding him up. "Who pulled you back?" indignantly cried the thin-faced man,
looking for blood. "That sacre startair!" "You ran a fine race, La Belle!" said Cameron, coming up. "Non! Peste! I mak heem in ten and one feeft," replied the
disgusted La Belle. "I have made it in ten," said Cameron quietly. "Aha!" exclaimed La Belle. "You are one black horse, eh? So!
I
race no more to-day!" "Then no more do I!" said Cameron firmly. "Why, La Belle, you will
beat me in the next race sure. I have no wind." Under pressure La Belle changed his mind, and well for him he did;
for in the two hundred and twenty yards and in the quarter mile
Cameron's lack of condition told against him, so that in the one
he ran second to La Belle and in the other third to La Belle and
Fullerton. The Maplehill folk were gloriously satisfied, and Fatty in an
ecstasy of delight radiated good cheer everywhere. Throughout the
various contests the interest continued to deepen, the secretary,
with able generalship, reserving the hammer-throwing as the most
thrilling event to the last place. For, more than anything in the
world, men, and especially women, love strong men and love to see
them in conflict. For that fatal love cruel wars have been waged,
lands have been desolated, kingdoms have fallen. There was the
promise of a very pretty fight indeed between the three entered for
the hammer-throwing contest, two of them experienced in this
warfare and bearing high honours, the third new to the game and
unskilled, but loved for his modest courage and for the simple,
gentle heart he carried in his great body. He could not win, of
course, for McGee, the champion of the city police force, had many
scalps at his girdle, and Duncan Ross, "Black Duncan," the pride of
the Zorras, the unconquered hero of something less than a hundred
fights--who could hope to win from him? But all the more for this
the people loved big Mack and wished him well. So down the sloping
sides of the encircling hills the crowds pressed thick, and on the
platform the great men leaned over the rail, while they lifted
their ladies to places of vantage upon the chairs beside them.
"Oh, I cannot see a bit!" cried Isa MacKenzie, vainly pressing upon
the crowding men who, stolidly unaware of all but what was doing in
front of them, effectually shut off her view. "And you want to see?" said the M.P.P., looking down at her. "Oh, so much!" she cried. "Come up here, then!" and, giving her a hand, he lifted her,
smiling and blushing, to a place on the platform whence she with
absorbing interest followed the movements of big Mack, and
incidentally of the others in as far as they might bear any
relation to those of her hero. And now they were drawing for place. "Aha! Mack is going to throw first!" said the Reverend Alexander
Munro. "That is a pity." "It's a shame!" cried Isa, with flashing eyes. "Why don't they put
one of those older--ah--?" "Stagers?" suggested the M.P.P.
"Duffers," concluded Isa. "The lot determines the place, Miss Isa," said Mr. Freeman, with a
smile at her. "But the best man will win." "Oh, I am not so sure of that!" cried the girl in a distressed
voice. "Mack might get nervous." "Nervous?" laughed the M.P.P. "That giant?" "Yes, indeed, I have seen him that nervous--" said Isa, and stopped
abruptly. "Ah! That is quite possible," replied the M.P.P. with a quizzical
smile. "And there is young Cameron yonder. He is not going to throw, is
he?" enquired Mr. Munro. "He is coaching Mack," explained Isa, "and fine he is at it. Oh,
there! He is going to throw! Oh, if he only gets the swing!
Oh!
Oh! Oh! He has got it fine!" A storm of cheers followed Mack's throw, then a deep silence while
the judges took the measurement. "One hundred and twenty-one feet!" "One hundred and twenty-one!" echoed a hundred voices in amazement. "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. A great roar rose from the crowd, round Mack they surged like a
flood, eager to grip his hands and eager to carry him off shoulder
high. But he threw them off as a rock throws back the incoming
tide and made for Duncan Ross, who stood, calm and pale, and with
hand outstretched, waiting him. It was a new experience for Black
Duncan, and a bitter, to be second in a contest. Only once in many
years had he been forced to lower his colours, and to be beaten by
a raw and unknown youth added to the humiliation of his defeat.
But Duncan Ross had in his veins the blood of a long line of
Highland gentlemen who knew how to take defeat with a smile. "I congratulate you, Mack Murray," he said in a firm, clear voice.
"Your fame will be through Canada tomorrow, and well you deserve
it." But Mack caught the outstretched hand in both of his and, leaning
toward Black Duncan, he roared at him above the din. "Mr. Ross, Mr. Ross, it is no win! Listen to me!" he panted.
"What are two inches in a hundred and twenty feet? A stretching of
the tape will do it. No, no! Listen to me! You must
listen to me
as you are a man! I will not have it! You can beat me easily
in
the throw! At best it is a tie and nothing else will I have
to-day. At least let us throw again!" he pleaded. But to this
Ross would not listen for a moment. "The lad has made his win," he said to the judges, "and his win he
must have." But Mack declared that nothing under heaven would make him change
his mind. Finally the judges, too, agreed that in view of the
possibility of a mistake in measuring with the tape, it would be
only right and fair to count the result a tie. Black Duncan
listened respectfully to the judges' decision. "You are asking me a good deal, Mack," he said at length, "but you
are a gallant lad and I am an older man and--" "Aye! And a better!" shouted Mack.
"And so I will agree." Once more the field was cleared. And now there fell upon the
crowding people a hush as if they stood in the presence of death
itself. "Ladies and gentlemen!" said the M.P.P. "Do you realise that you
are looking upon a truly great contest, a contest great enough to
be of national, yes, of international, importance?" "You bet your sweet life!" cried the irrepressible Fatty. "We're
going some. 'What's the matter with our Mack?'" he shouted. "'HE'S--ALL--RIGHT!'" came back the chant from the surrounding
hills in hundreds of voices. "And what's the matter with Duncan Ross?" cried Mack, waving a hand
above his head. Again the assurance of perfect rightness came back in a mighty roar
from the hills. But it was hushed into immediate silence, a
silence breathless and overwhelming, for Black Duncan had taken
once more his place with the hammer in his hand. "Oh, I do wish they would hurry!" gasped Isa, her hands pressed
hard upon her heart. "My heart is rather weak, too," said the M.P.P. "I fear I cannot
last much longer. Ah! There he goes, thank God!" "Amen!" fervently responds little Mrs. Freeman, who, in the
intensity of her excitement, is standing on a chair holding tight
by her husband's coat collar. Not a sound breaks the silence as Black Duncan takes his swing.
It is a crucial moment in his career. Only by one man in Canada
has he ever been beaten, and with the powers of his antagonist all
untried and unknown, for anyone could see that Mack has not yet
thrown his best, he may be called upon to surrender within the next
few minutes the proud position he has held so long in the athletic
world. But there is not a sign of excitement in his face. With
great care, and with almost painful deliberation, he balances the
hammer for a moment or two, then once--twice--and, with a tremendous
quickening of speed,--thrice--he swings, and his throw is made. A
great throw it is, anyone can see, and one that beats the winner.
In hushed and strained silence the people await the result. "One hundred and twenty-one feet nine." Then rises the roar that has been held pent up during the last few
nerve-racking minutes. "It iss a good enough throw," said Black Duncan with a quiet smile,
"but there iss more in me yet. Now, lad, do your best and there
will be no hard feeling with thiss man whateffer happens." Black Duncan's accent and idioms reveal the intense excitement that
lies behind his quiet face. Mack takes the hammer. "I will not beat it, you may be sure," he says. "But I will just
take a fling at it anyway." "Now, Mack," says Cameron, "for the sake of all you love forget the
distance and show them the Braemar swing. Easy and slow." But Mack waves him aside and stands pondering. He is "getting the
idea." "Man, do you see him?" whispers his brother Danny, who stands near
to Cameron. "I believe he has got it." Cameron nods his head. Mack wears an impressive air of confidence
and strength. "It will be a great throw," says Cameron to Danny. "Easy and slow" Mack poises the great hammer in his hand, swinging
it gently backward and forward as if it had been a boy's toy, the
great muscles in arms and back rippling up and down in firm full
waves under his white skin, for he is now stripped to the waist for
this throw. Suddenly, as if at command, the muscles seem to spring to their
places, tense, alert. "Easy." Yes, truly, but by no means
"slow."
"Easy," the great hammer swings about his head in whirling circles,
swift and ever swifter. Once--and twice--the great muscles in back
and arms and back and legs knotted in bunches--thrice! "Ah-h-h!" A long, wailing, horrible sound, half moan, half cry,
breaks from the people. Mack has missed his direction, and the
great hammer, weighted with the potentialities of death, is
describing a parabola high over the heads of the crowding,
shrieking, scattering people. "Oh, my God! My God! Oh, my God! My God!" With his
hands
covering his eyes the big man is swaying from side to side like a
mighty tree before a tempest. Cameron and Ross both spring to him.
On the hillsides men stand rigid, pale, shaking; women shriek and
faint. One ghastly moment of suspense, and then a horrid sickening
thud; one more agonising second of silence, and then from a score
of throats rises a cry: "It's all right! All right! No one hurt!" From five hundred throats breaks a weird unearthly mingling of
strange sounds; cheers and cries, shouts and sobs, prayers and
oaths. In the midst of it all Mack sinks to his knees, with hands
outstretched to heaven. "Great God, I thank Thee! I thank Thee!" he cries brokenly, the
tears streaming down his ghastly face. Then, falling forward upon
his hands, he steadies himself while great sobs come heaving from
his mighty chest. Cameron and Ross, still upholding him, through
the crowd a man comes pushing his way, hurling men and women right
and left. "Back, people! And be still." It is the minister, Alexander
Munro. "Be still! It is a great deliverance that God has
wrought!
Peace, woman! God is near! Let us pray." Instantly all noises are hushed, hats come off, and all up the
sloping hills men and women fall to their knees, or remain standing
with heads bowed, while the minister, upright beside the kneeling
man, spreads his hands towards heaven and prays in a voice steady,
strong, thrilling: "Almighty God, great and wonderful in Thy ways, merciful and
gracious in Thy providence, Thou hast wrought a great deliverance
before our eyes this day. All power is in Thy hands. All
forces
move at Thy command. Thine hand it is that guided this dread
hammer harmless to its own place, saving the people from death.
It is ever thus, Father, for Thou art Love. We lift to Thee our
hearts' praise. May we walk softly before Thee this day and alway.
Amen!" "Amen! Amen!" On every hand and up the hillsides rises the
fervent solemn attestation. "Rise, Mr. Murray!" says the minister in a loud and solemn voice,
giving Mack his hand. "God has been gracious to you this day.
See
that you do not forget." "He has that! He has that!" sobs Mack. "And God forgive me if
I ever forget." And, suddenly pushing from him the many hands
stretched out towards him, he stumbles his way through the crowd,
led off by his two friends towards the tent. "Hold on there a minute! Let us get this measurement first."
It
was the matter-of-fact, cheery voice of Fatty Freeman. "If I am
not mistaken we have a great throw to measure." "Quite right, Mr. Freeman," said the minister. "Let us get the
measurement and let not the day be spoiled." "Here, you people, don't stand there gawking like a lot of dotty
chumps!" cried the secretary, striving to whip them out of the mood
of horror into which they had fallen. "Get a move on! Give the
judges a chance! What is it, doctor?" The judges were consulting. At length the decision was announced. "One hundred and twenty-nine seven." "Hooray!" yelled Fatty, flinging his straw hat high. "One hundred
and twenty-nine seven! It is a world throw! Why don't you
yell,
you people? Don't you know that you have a world-beater among you?
Yell! Yell!" "Three cheers for Mack Murray!" called out the Reverend Harper
Freeman from the platform, swinging his great black beaver hat over
his head. It was what the people wanted. Again, and again, and yet again the
crowd exhausted its pent-up emotions in frantic cheers. The clouds
of gloom were rolled back, the sun was shining bright again, and
with fresh zest the people turned to the enjoyment of the rest of
the programme. "Thank you, Sir!" said Fatty amid the uproar, gripping the hand of
Mr. Munro. "You have saved the day for us. We were all going
to
smash, but you pulled us out." Meantime in the tent Duncan Ross was discoursing to his friends. "Man, Mack! Yon's a mighty throw! Do you know it iss within
five
feet of my own record and within ten of Big Rory's? Then," he said
solemnly, "you are in the world's first class to-day, my boy, and
you are just beginning."
"I have just quit!" said Mack. "Whist, lad! Thiss iss not the day for saying anything about it.
We will wait a wee and to-day we will just be thankful." And with
that they turned to other things. They were still in the dressing tent when the secretary thrust his
cheery face under the flap. "I say, boys! Are you ready? Cameron, we want you on the
pipes." "Harp!" said Mack. "I am going home. I am quite useless." "And me, too," said Cameron. "I shall go with you, Mack." "What?" cried Fatty in consternation. "Look here, boys! Is
this a
square deal? God knows I am nearly all in myself. I've had
enough
to keep this thing from going to pieces. Don't you go back on me
now!" "That is so!" said Mack slowly. "Cameron, you must stay. You
are
needed. I will spoil things more by staying than by going. I
would be forever seeing that hammer crushing down--" He covered
his face with his hands and shuddered.
"All right, Mack! I will stay," said Cameron. "But what about
you?" "Oh," said Black Duncan, "Mack and I will walk about and have a
smoke for a little." "Thanks, boys, you are the stuff!" said Fatty fervently. "Once
more you have saved the day. Come then, Cameron! Get your
pipes.
Old Sutherland is waiting for you." But before he set off Mack called Cameron to him. "You will see Isa," he said, "and tell her why I could not stay.
And you will take her home." His face was still pallid, his voice
unsteady. "I will take care of her, Mack, never fear. But could you not
remain? It might help you." But Mack only shook his head. His fervent Highland soul had too
recently passed through the valley of death and its shadows were
still upon him. Four hours later Fatty looked in upon Mack at his own home. He
found him sitting in the moonlight in the open door of the big new
barn, with his new-made friend, Duncan Ross, at one door post and
old Piper Sutherland at the other, while up and down the floor in
the shadow within Cameron marched, droning the wild melody of the
"Maccrimmon Lament." Mournful and weird it sounded through the
gloom, but upon the hearts of these Highlanders it fell like a
soothing balm. With a wave of his hand Mack indicated a seat,
which Fatty took without a word. Irrepressible though he was, he
had all the instincts of a true gentleman. He knew it was the time
for silence, and silent he stood till the Lament had run through
its "doubling" and its "trebling," ending with the simple stately
movement of its original theme. To Fatty it was a mere mad and
unmelodious noise, but, reading the faces of the three men before
him in the moonlight, he had sense enough to recognise his own
limitations. At length the Lament was finished and Cameron came forward into the
light. "Ah! That iss good for the soul," said old piper Sutherland.
"Do
you know what your pipes have been saying to me in yon Lament? 'Yea, though I walk through Death's dark vale,
Yet will I fear none ill;
For Thou art with me, and Thy rod
And staff me comfort
still.' And we have been in the valley thiss day." Mack rose to his feet. "I could not have said it myself, but, as true as death, that is
the word for me." "Well," said Fatty, rising briskly, "I guess you are all right,
Mack. I confess I was a bit anxious about you, but--" "There is no need," said Mack gravely. "I can sleep now." "Good-night, then," replied Fatty, turning to go. "Cameron, I owe
you a whole lot. I won't forget it." He set his hat upon the
back
of his head, sticking his hands into his pockets and surveying the
group before him. "Say! You Highlanders are a great bunch.
I do
not pretend to understand you, but I want to say that between you
you have saved the day." And with that the cheery, frisky,
irrepressible, but kindly little man faded into the moonlight and
was gone. For the fourth time the day had been saved. |
