"It's all right! All right! No one hurt!"
From five hundred throats breaks a weird unearthly mingling of strange sounds; cheers and cries, shouts and sobs, prayers and oaths. In the midst of it all Mack sinks to his knees, with hands outstretched to heaven.
"Great God, I thank Thee! I thank Thee!" he cries brokenly, the tears streaming down his ghastly face. Then, falling forward upon his hands, he steadies himself while great sobs come heaving from his mighty chest. Cameron and Ross, still upholding him, through the crowd a man comes pushing his way, hurling men and women right and left.
"Back, people! And be still." It is the minister, Alexander Munro. "Be still! It is a great deliverance that God has wrought!
Peace, woman! God is near! Let us pray."
Instantly all noises are hushed, hats come off, and all up the sloping hills men and women fall to their knees, or remain standing with heads bowed, while the minister, upright beside the kneeling man, spreads his hands towards heaven and prays in a voice steady, strong, thrilling:
"Almighty God, great and wonderful in Thy ways, merciful and gracious in Thy providence, Thou hast wrought a great deliverance before our eyes this day. All power is in Thy hands. All forces move at Thy command. Thine hand it is that guided this dread hammer harmless to its own place, saving the people from death.
It is ever thus, Father, for Thou art Love. We lift to Thee our hearts' praise. May we walk softly before Thee this day and alway.
Amen!"
"Amen! Amen!" On every hand and up the hillsides rises the fervent solemn attestation.
"Rise, Mr. Murray!" says the minister in a loud and solemn voice, giving Mack his hand. "God has been gracious to you this day. See that you do not forget."
"He has that! He has that!" sobs Mack. "And God forgive me if I ever forget." And, suddenly pushing from him the many hands stretched out towards him, he stumbles his way through the crowd, led off by his two friends towards the tent.
"Hold on there a minute! Let us get this measurement first." It was the matter-of-fact, cheery voice of Fatty Freeman. "If I am not mistaken we have a great throw to measure."
"Quite right, Mr. Freeman," said the minister. "Let us get the measurement and let not the day be spoiled."
"Here, you people, don't stand there gawking like a lot of dotty chumps!" cried the secretary, striving to whip them out of the mood of horror into which they had fallen. "Get a move on! Give the judges a chance! What is it, doctor?"
The judges were consulting. At length the decision was announced.
"One hundred and twenty-nine seven."
"Hooray!" yelled Fatty, flinging his straw hat high. "One hundred and twenty-nine seven! It is a world throw! Why don't you yell, you people? Don't you know that you have a world-beater among you?
Yell! Yell!"
"Three cheers for Mack Murray!" called out the Reverend Harper Freeman from the platform, swinging his great black beaver hat over his head.
It was what the people wanted. Again, and again, and yet again the crowd exhausted its pent-up emotions in frantic cheers. The clouds of gloom were rolled back, the sun was shining bright again, and with fresh zest the people turned to the enjoyment of the rest of the programme.
"Thank you, Sir!" said Fatty amid the uproar, gripping the hand of Mr. Munro. "You have saved the day for us. We were all going to smash, but you pulled us out."
Meantime in the tent Duncan Ross was discoursing to his friends.
"Man, Mack! Yon's a mighty throw! Do you know it iss within five feet of my own record and within ten of Big Rory's? Then," he said solemnly, "you are in the world's first class to-day, my boy, and you are just beginning."
"I have just quit!" said Mack.
