Part 14 (1/2)

Anyways a mining man. Too bad it's Sat.u.r.day afternoon, though. That's a regular half holiday here now. Boys mostly lay around and enjoy themselves. We'll find most of 'em out at the park, I guess, doin'

stunts.”

The stranger looked at him inquiringly. ”Stunts?” he queried.

Harrison grinned. ”Athletic craze struck here about a month ago,” he answered. ”Kind o' funny, too, when you come to think of it, ain't it?

Here's a crowd o' big miners slavin' away five days an' a half a week gettin' out copper, workin' like truck horses, an' then when Sat.u.r.day afternoons come they've got to get out an' work just about twice as hard playin' baseball an' runnin' an' throwin' weights. It's a pretty d.a.m.n lucky thing they've got Sunday to rest up in, or they'd be one o'

these fallin' offs in copper production you minin' fellers tell of.”

Gordon's face betrayed his interest. ”It does seem funny,” he acquiesced, ”but I know how it is, just the same. I used to do a little in that line myself once on a time, and pretty good fun it was, too,” and he smiled reminiscently as he spoke, as if the memories that came to mind were pleasant ones.

Half a mile or so from town they came to the smelting works, as Harrison had predicted, shut down for the afternoon. Beyond the line of low buildings, a flat open field, the gra.s.s burned brown by the sun, stretched away for a quarter of a mile or more. The heat of the afternoon was just changing to the cool of evening, and, in the center of the field, true to Harrison's prophecy, two rival ball teams were playing with all the zest of boys. Nearer at hand a dozen brawny miners were throwing the hammer. Even as Gordon looked, one of them picked up the missile, swung it around his head, and hurled it far out from the circle. The stranger's eyes gleamed. ”Rotten form,” he muttered under his breath, and then, with apparent irrelevance, he added, ”and they say there's no such thing as luck.”

They had reached the little group, and Harrison, evidently well known and well liked, was greeted with rough good will. Responding, he introduced the visitor. ”Boys,” he said, ”let me make you acquainted with Mr. Gordon. He's another one o' these eastern minin' sharps, come out on purpose to buy the whole towns.h.i.+p, if we'll give him a cheap enough rate on it; so you want to look out an' treat him good.”

There was a general laugh, in which Gordon joined. ”Oh, we easterners are easy, I admit,” he said good-naturedly. ”Don't soak it to me too hard, that's all I ask. Jack's got no license, though, to go to talking business on Sat.u.r.day afternoon, just for the fun of getting after me. We're on a vacation now. Let's see somebody throw that hammer again.”

”That's right,” cried Harrison; ”let Bill Martin give her a toss. He's the man can do it.”

The others drew back, and as Martin willingly enough stepped forward, Gordon looked him over with undisguised admiration. He was perhaps thirty-five years of age, well over six feet, and a much bigger man than Harrison even. His woolen s.h.i.+rt, open at the neck, showed the play of the corded muscles in his ma.s.sive throat and neck, and his uprolled sleeves disclosed the arms of a giant. Taking his stand somewhat awkwardly, he swung the hammer stiffly around his head, and then, with one final tremendous heave, sent it hurling a good ten feet beyond the farthest mark.

There was a chorus of good-natured approval. ”Put the tape on it,”

cried three or four at once, and the hundred-foot measure was slowly unrolled until the mark was reached, and then pulled tight.

”Ninety-four feet, eight inches,” called the measurer, and there was another murmur of satisfaction. Harrison turned to Gordon. ”How's that?” he grinned. ”Beat that back east?”

Gordon smiled too. ”Well, that's a good throw,” he answered noncommittally, ”a mighty good throw from a stand, but the real way to throw a hammer's to turn with it; you can get up so much more speed that way.”

The little group gazed at him in astonishment. One or two grinned derisively. Old Jim Stickney, with deep meaning, spat upon the ground, then looked up at Gordon.

”Would you show us?” he asked, with mild and deceptive politeness. ”We all hail from Missouri here.”

Harrison looked distressed. He felt in a way responsible for the stranger. ”Oh, h.e.l.l, Jim,” he expostulated, ”ain't you got no manners?”

Gordon laughed easily. ”I guess it's up to me, boys,” he said quietly, and, leisurely removing his coat, collar and tie, he laid them methodically on the ground.

The group eyed him with surprised interest. Stickney grinned malevolently and moved away. ”Goin' to git out o' range, boys,” he said; ”don't want to git hit.”

Gordon showed no resentment, but on the contrary nodded with the utmost cheerfulness. ”That's a good idea,” he said; ”it's a long time since I've thrown one of these things. Can't tell what'll happen. I don't know that I ought to be throwing, anyway. My lungs aren't any too strong.”

Harrison, in mute distress, dreading a scene, laid a hand on his arm.

”Don't let 'em make a fool of you,” he whispered; ”they'll tell it all over the county; unless,” he added, ”you really can throw the darned thing.”

Gordon nodded in quick appreciation of the other's good will. ”Don't you worry, Jack,” he whispered in answer; ”I wouldn't try it if I couldn't get by. We've got to take the good chances when they come along. They're not apt to turn around and come back again.”

Harrison looked puzzled, and a little dubious, but as Gordon took his stand within the circle the miner's face cleared. There was a masterful ease in the way in which the easterner took his position very different from the awkward pose of the others. Once, twice, three times, the hammer circled around his head, and then, like lightning, he spun around in his tracks, once, twice, so quickly that the eye could scarcely follow the whirling missile. Then, in a flash, it leaped from his hands, and Gordon was left standing motionless in the ring, while the hammer shot up and out in a high, graceful curve, sailing along as if on wings until it landed with a thud so far beyond Martin's mark as to make comparison ridiculous.

There was silence, bewildered, complete, absolute. Gordon, not seeming to notice, stepped from the circle. ”A little low,” he said, with a note of apology in his tone, ”and I didn't quite get my weight behind it. A little out of practice, I guess, but the turn's a great thing.”

And then over the group swept a sudden revulsion, and there burst forth a mighty roar of laughter. Stickney spat again, but, if the phrase be permissible, with a far different intonation; and then voiced the sentiment of the crowd. ”Well, by G.o.d,” he cried nasally, ”all I can say is I'm glad you ain't kept in steady practice, an' I'll say further that you can bet I ain't wastin' a mite of sympathy on them pore weak lungs o' yourn. No, sir, I ain't, an' not by a d.a.m.ned sight, neither.”