At Start And Finish Part 5

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 pa.s.sing 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 was announced, 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, a quick 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Hollow Hammer]

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 a start. 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, cl.u.s.tered 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-b.a.l.l.s 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 too many 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 by some 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-natured chaffing 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 compet.i.tion, 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 debut, as there were some very convenient sports only a few weeks ahead.

These games, Scotch and otherwise, were the princ.i.p.al 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 occurred that 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.