"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.
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