“A hammer zat takes tree men——”
“Hush!” whispered the Count. “They are only holding it down!”
The Baron laid his hand upon the round enormous head, and started.
“It is not iron!” he gasped. “It is of rubber.”
“Filled with hydrogen,” breathed the Count in his ear. “Just swing it once and let go—and, I say, mind it doesn't carry you away with it.”
The chief bared his arms and seized the handle; his three clansmen let go; and then, with what seemed to the breathless spectators to be a merely trifling effort of strength, he dismissed the projectile upon the most astounding journey ever seen even in that land of brawny hammer-hurlers. Up, up, up it soared, over the trees; high above the topmost turret of the castle, and still on and on and ever upwards till it became a mere speck in the zenith, and at last faded utterly from sight.
Then, and not till then, did the pent-up applause break out into such a roar of cheering as Hechnahoul had never heard before in all its long history.
“Eighty-five pounds of pig-iron gone straight to heaven!” gasped the Silver King. “Guess that beats all records!”
“America must wake up!” frowned Ri.
Meanwhile the Baron, after bowing in turn towards all points of the compass, turned confidentially to his friend.