Dan Matlock, one of the boys of the Blue Mountain Club, came next, and then Hans Dunnerwust’s name was called.
“Shoost you vatch me!” cried the roly-poly Dutch boy, as he advanced and spat on his hands before taking up the bow. “I pet you your life I preaks der recort.”
There was a howl of derision at this from the Blue Mountain boys, and even the Dutch boy’s friends joined in the laugh.
“Vell, you may laugh at dot uf you don’t vant to,” he exclaimed, “put maype you don’t laugh on der oder side your mouts uf pime-py. Ged avay oudt! I vas goin’ to shoot der arrow oudt mit dot golt, py shimminy, und don’d you vorgid me!”
He drew the bow slowly up to his face, shut one eye and squinted along the arrow. Then he put the bow down, with a triumphant laugh.
“Who vas id say to me avhile ago dot dis pow veigh dirty pounds, yet alretty? Vy, id can lift me like id vos an infant.”
“Go on and shoot,” said Merriwell. “The bow doesn’t weigh thirty pounds. It takes a thirty-pound pull to bend it. That’s why it is called a thirty-pound bow.”
“So, dot vos id, eh?” queried Dunnerwust, looking the bow over curiously. “Id dakes dirty pounds to bent me! Vell, here I vos go ag’in. Look oudt eferypoty.”
His fingers slipped from the arrow and the bowstring twanged prematurely.
This was followed by a howl from Toots, who dropped to the ground and began to roll over as if in great agony.