the time. Wasn’t more than four years ago we allowed ’em unlimited runs. They started over there somewhere and came spinning past here like teetotums. It was in the lap of the gods which got thrown farther, the hammer or the man. More than one of the crowd got picked off by badly aimed hammers, too. Serve ’em right—they only came to watch because it was comical. You don’t get that class of person now that it’s all done from seven-foot circles. There’s still an element of danger, mind. Where did you intend to stand?’
‘I thought I might make myself useful by retrieving the hammers,’ said Cribb. That would put him in the front line, but it promised to be less suicidal than standing by the circle to check the movements of the throwers’ feet.
‘Very well. Keep your wits about you, though. This isn’t cricket, you know. There’s no credit given for catching them before they land.’
Cribb formed his mouth into the token of a smile and started watchfully along the margin of the throwing area. He was determined not to take his eyes off the hammer-circle so long as he was within range. The throwers were practising their turns, keeping a firm grip on their hammers and rotating like whirling Dervishes.
He took up a stance on the bicycle track, in line with the second official, who positioned himself rashly in the very centre of the arena. Presently there was a shrill whistle-blast from the first, a vigorous brandishing of a Union Jack, and one of the throwers stepped into the circle, spat into the palm of each hand, swung the hammer several times through an axis above his head, brought it lower, turned his body with it and let go.
It thudded into the turf some thirty feet from Cribb. The second official hurried towards it and marked the spot with an iron pin with a pennant attached. Cribb took hold of the wooden shaft of the hammer and disinterred the metal head by a series of jerks. The movement dislodged his silk hat and sent it careering across the grass. ‘For Heaven’s sake,’ said the second official as he returned it to him, ‘let’s endeavour to preserve a modicum of dignity, old fellow. There’s enough antics going on at the other end, without you and me setting up in opposition.’
In their present situation, it was courting disaster to prolong conversation further, so he picked up the hammer and stumbled to the sideline without a word. There, he started the walk back towards the circle, dragging the implement behind him like a sledge, for exhibitions of strength were no more suitable from officials than antics with hats.
He was met half-way by the thrower, a generously-built fellow, not quite a barge-horse, but impressive enough about the flanks and withers. ‘I’ll need to turn faster than that to bother the Yankees,’ he confided to Cribb in the unconfidential accents of the English upper class. ‘I fancy that this hammer is a trifle short in the shaft. See if you can get hold of Devlin’s and pass it on to me, there’s a good chap. I’ll wait here.’
There was nothing against it in the rules he had thoughtfully consulted that morning, so he nodded and made for the centre of the field, where the second hammer had already embedded itself, some ten feet past the Englishman’s mark. When it was marked, he wrenched it from the turf and hauled it over to the waiting athlete.
‘Stout fellow!’ said the Englishman. He grabbed the handle and made off towards the circle at some speed, taking care not to catch the eye of the American fast approaching Cribb.
‘Where’s m’hammer?’ demanded the new arrival. He was the shorter of the foreign opposition, a mere six feet or so of shaggy Irish-American muscularity. This must be Devlin, Cribb decided. It wouldn’t do to anger him.
Cribb winked theatrically. ‘I think you’ll find there’s more whip on this one. This shaft is made of malacca, you see. The other’s hickory. I passed it to the Englishman.’ He winked again, in case
‘I thought I might make myself useful by retrieving the hammers,’ said Cribb. That would put him in the front line, but it promised to be less suicidal than standing by the circle to check the movements of the throwers’ feet.
‘Very well. Keep your wits about you, though. This isn’t cricket, you know. There’s no credit given for catching them before they land.’
Cribb formed his mouth into the token of a smile and started watchfully along the margin of the throwing area. He was determined not to take his eyes off the hammer-circle so long as he was within range. The throwers were practising their turns, keeping a firm grip on their hammers and rotating like whirling Dervishes.
He took up a stance on the bicycle track, in line with the second official, who positioned himself rashly in the very centre of the arena. Presently there was a shrill whistle-blast from the first, a vigorous brandishing of a Union Jack, and one of the throwers stepped into the circle, spat into the palm of each hand, swung the hammer several times through an axis above his head, brought it lower, turned his body with it and let go.
It thudded into the turf some thirty feet from Cribb. The second official hurried towards it and marked the spot with an iron pin with a pennant attached. Cribb took hold of the wooden shaft of the hammer and disinterred the metal head by a series of jerks. The movement dislodged his silk hat and sent it careering across the grass. ‘For Heaven’s sake,’ said the second official as he returned it to him, ‘let’s endeavour to preserve a modicum of dignity, old fellow. There’s enough antics going on at the other end, without you and me setting up in opposition.’
In their present situation, it was courting disaster to prolong conversation further, so he picked up the hammer and stumbled to the sideline without a word. There, he started the walk back towards the circle, dragging the implement behind him like a sledge, for exhibitions of strength were no more suitable from officials than antics with hats.
He was met half-way by the thrower, a generously-built fellow, not quite a barge-horse, but impressive enough about the flanks and withers. ‘I’ll need to turn faster than that to bother the Yankees,’ he confided to Cribb in the unconfidential accents of the English upper class. ‘I fancy that this hammer is a trifle short in the shaft. See if you can get hold of Devlin’s and pass it on to me, there’s a good chap. I’ll wait here.’
There was nothing against it in the rules he had thoughtfully consulted that morning, so he nodded and made for the centre of the field, where the second hammer had already embedded itself, some ten feet past the Englishman’s mark. When it was marked, he wrenched it from the turf and hauled it over to the waiting athlete.
‘Stout fellow!’ said the Englishman. He grabbed the handle and made off towards the circle at some speed, taking care not to catch the eye of the American fast approaching Cribb.
‘Where’s m’hammer?’ demanded the new arrival. He was the shorter of the foreign opposition, a mere six feet or so of shaggy Irish-American muscularity. This must be Devlin, Cribb decided. It wouldn’t do to anger him.
Cribb winked theatrically. ‘I think you’ll find there’s more whip on this one. This shaft is made of malacca, you see. The other’s hickory. I passed it to the Englishman.’ He winked again, in case
Similar Books
