Hamilton went and studied the situation carefully. Then he went back, and played his first shot.
‘Soop it! Soop it! Soop it!’ roared the schoolmaster, flourishing his broom, and dancing like a maniac. He alone, of the Auchinbyres players, understood the object of the shot, and saw that it could only be defeated, if at all, by giving it a little extra impetus. But the advice came too late. The brooms were plied before it like lightning, but the stone came stealing up like a live thing, and just avoiding an outlying guard, gave a knock to one stone at such an angle that the impetus was communicated to a second and from it to a third, while it took the third place, thus cutting off two of the adversaries’ points.
‘Noo, m’ lord, a wee thocht tae the richt o’ this,’ said Johnnie Fergus, as he stooped down and held his broom over the spot where he desired Lord Bantock’s stone should come in.
But Lord Bantock had been given the place of honour as last player more out of consideration for his rank than for his skill. He played with far too much force, and sent his stone smashing on one of the outside guards, from which it rushed to the side of the rink and disappeared.
‘Did I no tell ye no to pit that sumph at the tail?’ quoth Johnnie in an undertone of deep disgust, as he rose from his stooping posture.
‘Haud your tongue, man! I’ve seen his lordship play as weel as ony deacon amang ye,’ said the leader, angry at being suspected of unduly favouring the great man.
But with a cry of expectation from the crowd, Hamilton’s second stone left his hand and came spinning over the ice, right in the track of its predecessor. A roar went up from the players, as the Muirburn men rushed forward, and distributing themselves over the path which the stone had to traverse, polished it till the ice was like glass. The stone came in beautifully, displaced the best stone, and took the first place, by cannoning off another of the enemy.
A loud hurrah greeted this feat, and Lord Bantock stepped forward, determined to do something to redeem his reputation, which he knew had suffered from the result of his former effort.
An old farmer ran as fast as his years would permit to offer his lordship a word of advice before the last shot was fired.
‘All right, Blackwater,’ said Lord Bantock, with a nod, as he planted his feet firmly on the ice, and gripped the handle of his stone, as if he would bend the brass. Away went the stone with a rush, and a roar from the crowd. Crash—crash—it struck against one and another; but it had force enough to go on. Smash it came among the group of stones, sending them flying in all directions, while everybody jumped aside to avoid a collision. It was not a first-rate shot; but it was successful. The first, second, third, fourth, and fifth stones were knocked, or rather knocked one another, out of the way. Lord Bantock’s stone itself went right ahead, ploughing a path for itself in the snow beyond the rink. Alec’s second stone, long since considered to be out of the running, was found to be half an inch nearer the tee than any one belonging to the other side; and the Muirburn men accordingly scored one towards the game.