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.
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