Laird Murray is directed by his adviser at the tee (the blacksmith) to break-off the guard in front, but misses. Scott his antagonist, by a skilfully played stone, puts on another guard still, in order to avoid danger from Laird Murray’s second and last stone. One chance only now apparently remains for the laird of Broughton, who requires but one shot to reverse the order of things and retrieve the game, and he tries it. It is one of those very difficult shots known amongst curlers as an outwick. A stone of his side has lain considerably to the right of the tee short of it, which if touched on the outer side might be driven in towards the centre and perhaps lie shot. The inwick would be easier, but that the stone is unfortunately guarded for that attempt. He knows that Denholm’s first stone still lies the shot, and is guarded both in front and at the side; and that with another, Tweedsmuir will be thirty-one and game. The shot is risked—after other contingencies have been duly weighed—but without the desired effect: the outlying stone is certainly touched, which in itself was a good shot, but is not sufficiently taken on the side to produce the desired effect. The laird of Broughton pales visibly as the shot is missed, and mutters something between his clenched teeth anything but complimentary to things in general.
The last stone now lies by the foot of our Tweedsmuir laird, who calmly awaits the word of direction from Andrew at the other end.
‘Laird!’ shouts the anxious mason, ‘there’s but the one thing for it, and I’ve seen ye play a dafter-like shot. What would ye say to try an inwick aff my last stane and lift this ane a foot?’ pointing to a stone of his side which lay near, though still not counting; ‘that would give us another shot, and the game!’
‘Well Andrew, that’s why I asked you to fill the port, for I saw what they didna see, that a wick and curl-in would be left: I think it may be done. At any rate I can but try.’
Silence reigns o’er the rink: the sweepers on each side stand in breathless suspense: the wick taken, as given by Andrew in advice to the Laird, may proclaim Broughton beaten and Tweedsmuir the champion parish of the county!
‘Stand back from behind, and shew me the stone with your besom, Andrew; there.’
The suspense is soon broken, the last stone has sped on its mission, the wick has been taken, a stone on Laird Scott’s side that was lying farther from the tee than one of the opponents’, is ‘lifted’ into second place, which with the mason’s winner makes exactly the magic score of thirty-one! Like the thaw which after this long-continued storm will be welcomed by man and beast alike, so does the thaw now melt the frozen tongues of the players. Hats fly up in frenzy of delight, and the phenomenon is witnessed (only to be witnessed on ice) of a Scottish laird and his humble tenant in ecstatic embrace. Flasks are produced, hands shaken by rivals as well as by friends—though chiefly by friends: preparations are made to carry home the paraphernalia of the roaring game: and while Betty congratulates the laird and his guests on their victory, there is happiness in store for Andrew Denholm, whose prowess so notably contributed to secure the honour of Tweedsmuir.
AN IRISH COUNTRY FUNERAL.
The difference between English and Irish as regards the funeral customs of the peasantry in both countries is great. To have a large assemblage at the ‘berrin’ is among the latter an object of ambition and pride to the family; and the concourse of neighbours, friends, and acquaintances who flock from all parts to the funeral is often immense. Even strangers will swell the funeral cortège, and will account for doing so by saying: ‘Sure, won’t it come to our turn some day, and isn’t a big following—to do us credit at our latter end—what we’d all like? So why shouldn’t we do what is dacent and neighbourly by one another?’