“Twenty-eight feet, eight inches!” sung out the score keeper. It was a good throw, not equaling the best of the amateur records by a foot, but still very fair.
“Now, Dutch, it’s up to us,” said Kindlings in a low voice. “I’ll go first, Barth will follow, and you hold yourself for the last. Remember we’ve got to win!”
“Um!” grunted Dutch, as Kindlings stepped into the circle.
He did not beat the Exter player’s throw, in fact being three feet behind it, and Barth was but little better.
“Come on, Dutch!” ordered Kindlings, and then from the grandstand came one of Randall’s songs chorused by Bean Perkins and his throng.
There was a hush as Dutch took up the weight, and as the muscles of his legs swelled out during the preliminary swinging of it, it seemed as if he might win, for he was in perfect trim.
Over his head sailed the weight, to fall with a thud on the turf—a thud that seemed loud amid the hush that followed.
There were anxious faces watching the scorer as he and his assistants measured the distance, for everything now depended on this record Dutch had made.
“Twenty-eight feet,” sung out the official, and Dutch felt his heart sink. “And five inches,” added the scorer. “The weight throwing contest goes to Exter by three inches, with Randall second.”
There was a riot of cheers from the Exter grandstand, and gloom and silence on the part of Randall. She had lost the first event.