“I suppose you understand how the scores are to be counted?” inquired Hammond, glad to change the subject, for he did not like the look that had come into Diamond’s dark face. “A hit in the gold counts nine, in the red seven, in the blue five, in the black three, and in the white one.”
“And if you miss the gol darned thing altogether?” drawled the boy from Vermont.
“You’ll likely lose an arrow somewhere down there in the woods,” Hammond laughed.
Craig Carter, a sinewy lad of about seventeen, Hammond’s most intimate friend and admirer, stepped forward with drawn bow and placed himself in readiness to shoot, as his name came first on the list.
“We’re not ready yet,” objected Merriwell, noting the action and again glancing toward the target. “The distance hasn’t been measured.”
“We measured it before you came,” said Hammond, with an uneasy look.
“It is only fair that it should be measured in our presence,” continued Frank. “Errors can happen, you know, and as the rules call for sixty yards and we have been practicing for that we don’t want to run any risks by shooting at any other distance.”
No one knew better than Ward Hammond how essential it is in archery shooting to know the exact distance that is to be shot over.
Hammond’s uneasiness seemed to communicate itself to other members of the Blue Mountain Athletic Club.
“Get the tape measure,” Hammond commanded, addressing Craig Carter.