“Nine—in the gold!” came the voice of the marker.
“Good boy!” cried Harry Rattleton. “That gives you one hundred and forty-nine. Do it another time.”
Frank Merriwell did it another time; and when the marker called “nine,” Ward Hammond became noticeably rattled, for he had made only seven in the previous shot.
Hammond’s hands were seen to shake as he drew on the bowstring, and when the marker called, “only five—in the blue,” his dark face grew almost colorless.
“One more round,” said the score marker. “Frank Merriwell now has 158; Ward Hammond, 157.”
The excitement was at fever pitch as Merriwell again went forward to shoot.
He knew that everything depended on this last shot. If he could again hit the gold, it would then be impossible for Hammond to beat him, for he already led Hammond by one and Hammond could do no more than strike the gold. Therefore he went about his preparations with the utmost coolness and care.
Grasping the bow in the middle with his left hand, he placed the notch of the feathered arrow on the middle of the string with his right, resting the shaft across the bow on the left side just above and touching his left hand. Then, with the first three fingers of his right hand, which were covered with leather tips to protect them, he grasped the string and the arrow-neck.
It was an inspiring sight just to look on Merriwell at this supreme moment, as he stood ready to shoot. He seemed to be unconscious that there was another person in the world. His body was gracefully erect, his left side slightly turned toward the target, his left arm rigidly extended, and his right hand drawing steadily on the string of the bow. There was a shining light in his eyes and on his face a slight flush.
The profound silence that had fallen on every one was broken by the twang of the bowstring, by the arrow’s whizzing flight and by the audible sighs that went up as it sped on its way.