wide of the left-hand stone of those two guards, by which the temporary skip is holding his besom. For one moment he watches its passage, eyes glued to it, stricken to stone. Suddenly an awful misgiving occurs to him, his face turns to a perfect mask of agonised fury, and he yells at the top of a naturally powerful voice:
“Sweep her, don’t leave her for a moment. Sweep! Sweep! Don’t leave her. Good Lord, can’t you sweep? Oh, well swept, well swept indeed!”
Then probably with infernal superiority he shouts, “Is that about where you wanted it?” knowing perfectly well that it is.
All this means that
(i) He was afraid he had put down his stone too weakly, and that it would not get over the hog.
(ii) It would then be ignominiously removed, and he would wish he had never been born.
(iii) The opposing skip would sail through that port, and out the winning stone.
(iv) That it is all his fault, and that he will never curl again, but take to that degraded pastime, skating.
(v) Finally, that his stone has been swept over the hog and lies now bang in the middle of the passage, closing it completely—a perfect gem, pearl, peach.
Says the other skip grimly, “You’ve got some good sweepers on your side.”