Five paces he passed beyond it, turned upon his heel, paused, measured his distance with his eye from old habit, arose upon his toes, pranced up to his crease with hand and arm at their utmost stretch, shook and flung his assegai.
All eyes followed the weapon, its grey chert head travelled steady as a stone, its five feet of shaft rotating as it flew in such wise that its extremity traversed a small circle. This was how a spear should be thrown, perfect form. How about the aim? The weapon completed its curve, pitched, struck, but did not satisfy the demands of the competition so completely as the thrower's friends could have wished: the direction was better than good, but the elevation was ever so little too high: the weapon had struck the upper edge of the mark, the shaft swung over and drew the point. The spear lay upon the ground beyond, its head towards the thrower: yet, it was a great throw. As every watcher knew, had the mark been a man that man would have taken a nasty wound.
The thrower, you may be sure, had followed the flight of his assegai no less critically. Without once taking his eye from the mark he took and weighed in hand the spear which he was to throw next, stepped lightly back, took distance, shook, ran and threw. Nor was he below himself, this was better, as good as to direction, and as to elevation somewhat lower than the former. The head penetrated the nether edge of the skin and held, albeit the shaft drooped; thus much only it lacked of perfection, yet, there was not another man in the silent circle of spectators who could have done as well. The third and last was a truly fine performance: a centre well driven home, it would have been impossible to better it. The spearman, his hands hanging by his sides surveyed his work frowning slightly, as an expert does who has done well, but whose ambition was to have done better than well; then he slowly raised his chin, folded his arms across his chest and turned to his cousin with the superb and natural scorn of the savage who has no tradition of restraint behind him.
"Is that Honk-Ah's best?" asked Pŭl-Yūn quietly, without rising from his heels. "Let my cousin take his time, the day is still young. Try three more throws, and again three more; it may be that two of thy spears balanced ill, or thy arm was yet stiff from being lain upon. What?—thou art satisfied? Wilt stand by these, nor ask for more, however the matter goes?"
He ceased at a touch of the old chief's hand, and none too soon. Honk-Ah, a passionate and hasty fellow was shaking with anger; he detested his cousin with a bitterness which surprised even himself: he had hated him when he thought him dead, and now, that he had returned from the underworld, as it seemed, to snatch the prize from his grasp, his aversion went near to choking him. Whether Pŭl-Yūn spoke or was silent, sat or stood, he hated him; his least movement, or the absence of movement fed the hate which had been smouldering within him for a year, which had glowed in his bosom all night and now had all-but burst into flame.
It was a full-blown flower of primitive jealousy. The old chief recognised the growth and inwardly shivered, things might yet go ill. Let there be no talk, let Pŭl-Yūn betake himself to his weapons.
"If it must be, it must be," remarked Pŭl-Yūn without enthusiasm. "But, look you, my brothers and friends, I am but a night and a day from the snows of the pass; three (or was it not four?) days and as many nights did I sit in a snow-cave waiting for the fall to stop. I have travelled through drifts as deep as my chin, and this upon the top of a broken leg. Yes, I lay for nigh two moons in a cave with a broken leg. Hence Pŭl-Yūn, who was approved your war-chief two years ago, is not at his best this day. He has forgot his spear-throwing somewhat. It is four, nay, it is six, moons since he threw a spear."
A shiver of astonishment ran around the circle, for this was giving the contest away before it was begun. Spear-throwing is an art which calls for constant and unremitting practice: the assegai-thrower no more than the violinist can lay aside his instrument for weeks and months at a time and resume it at will with his old facility. The listening tribesmen covered their mouths with their hands and smiled behind them, each man's eyes rolled on his fellows' seeking and finding comprehension. The thing was as good as settled. But Pŭl-Yūn had arisen to his feet and was still speaking,—
"I have brought back to camp no spears of our sort, for my arm is very fat and weak, much weaker than the arm of my wife here (who will throw presently)." A laugh broke out, but fell, for he was grave and was still speaking, he had none of the marks of a madman about him, he was just the Pŭl-Yūn whom they had all known and loved, gentle of speech exceedingly,—yet his words, or some of them were strange—ludicrous.
"So, I have made for myself little assegais, boys' assegais," whilst speaking he drew one from the long skin pouch which hung at his back and handed it to the old chief, who turned it end for end in his hand, and looked it over very critically and passed it on to the elder nearest to him with an impassive face but a very shaken heart. The absurd little thing went slowly around the circle, none above the age of an uninitiated boy had ever handled its like, it reached Honk-Ah who disdained to touch it, smiling insolently, his game already won.