“Hundred and forty-six feet three inches.”
Trowbridge shrugged his shoulders as he took the hammer for the next attempt and put more speed into the swing. But he used his feet poorly and the figures dropped back to three inches under one hundred and forty-five feet. A shade of uneasiness darkened the confident face, and Trowbridge set his lips tightly as he raised the weight. Then the long arms whirled, the body spun around, and the hammer whizzed through the air. The tape was laid to the ground.
“Hundred and forty-seven feet nine inches,” said a judge.
Trowbridge stepped from the ring with a scowl, and Dave took his place. As the Hillton lad gripped his hammer his eyes fell on Paddy, who had joined the little throng, his desire to witness Dave’s work having overcome his fear of the marshal. Paddy grinned encouragement, and Dave, with a lurking smile on his serious countenance, responded with a portentous wink. Then the hammer went up, swung around in its widening circle, and flew away.
“Hundred and forty-three feet three inches.”
Once more, and again the tape and the careful measurement.
“Hundred and forty-eight feet five inches.”
A ripple of surprise and applause went through the audience. Trowbridge looked sad. Paddy executed a quiet dance at the edge of the throng. Back came the hammer. Dave gripped it with an air of determination, and placed his feet with greater care than before. Up went the weight, around spun the boy like a dervish, once, twice, thrice; there was a sudden quick stiffening of the muscles, a set to the shoulders, and the twelve pounds of iron sped away at a tangent and ripped the sod at a point farther from the circle than any preceding throw.
“One hundred and forty-nine feet one inch,” announced the judges. Dave had won first place for Hillton.