the first had not been noticed.
Devlin frowned, and examined the hammer-handle dubiously. ‘Now why should you do a thing like that?’
Cribb shrugged. ‘Maybe there’s a drop of Erin blood in my veins.’
‘Ah!’ Devlin seemed to understand. He winked at Cribb and walked away, dangling the hammer like a toy.
During this conversation, the third hammer had been launched and had landed several yards short of the previous throws. Cribb retrieved it and towed it to the side of the throwing area. In his keenness to get clear before the whistle blew again, he practically butted his silk hat into the midriff of the third competitor.
Malone did not budge an inch. If Cribb’s forward motion had not been independently halted at the last possible instant, there is no question that the injuries would have been all on his side. ‘I do apologise,’ he said.
Malone put forward a massive hand for his hammer. The sections of his limbs not covered by the black merino of guernsey and drawers supported a growth of hair so abundant that it would not have wanted much imagination to believe him clothed from head to toe in black. When Cribb looked up into the two small eyes that, together with a once-fractured nose, were all that could be seen of Malone’s face behind a mass of glossy curls, he had the curious fancy that they were regarding him from the centre of a heap of blackberries. It was not a fruit he liked.
Malone took the hammer without a word and strode away. Cribb studied his vast, retreating figure. It was baffling that a man of those proportions could not hurl a sixteen pound weight farther than lesser mortals like Devlin and the Englishman. Possibly Malone was equally baffled.
The next throw from the Englishman drifted well off centre, but it was a long one that took him into the lead. ‘It’s a little beauty!’ he told Cribb, when he collected the hammer. ‘Let’s see if Uncle Sam can match that!’
Devlin’s throw, unhappily, was ten feet behind his first effort. Cribb discerned unmistakable aggression in the set of the Irish-American’s shoulders as he came forward for the malacca-handled hammer. ‘Did you see that throw of mine? I think you handed me a bum hammer, Mister. Are you sure about that Irish blood of yours?’
‘As sure as I am that you’ll beat him with your last throw,’ said Cribb, with all the passion he could raise. ‘I think you gave it too much height, if I might proffer an opinion. The shaft is giving you the extra whip. You have my word for that.’
‘D’you really think so?’ said Devlin, prepared to be convinced.
‘I had the very devil of a job pulling it out of the turf,’ said Cribb. ‘There’s power in that malacca, I promise you.’
‘There has to be. I shall need over a hundred feet to win this afternoon.’
At the other end, Malone was in the circle. His efforts with the hammer aped the style of the other competitors without achieving the same fluidity. Instead of swinging the hammerhead through a series of circles in a gradually accelerating movement, he somehow contrived to begin like a fly-wheel at full speed and end like a novice with a yo-yo. On sheer arm-power the hammer swung aloft and dropped like a plummet not twenty yards from the circle. Cribb decided it was prudent to let him collect the implement himself.
The Englishman’s third throw was no longer than his second, so it was open to the Americans to clinch the contest with their final efforts. For once in his life, Cribb gritted his teeth and hoped Britannia would not prevail. There were bigger things at issue than victory in a sporting competition. The winning of Devlin’s confidence was more important for England this afternoon.
The lead weight at the end of the malacca handle flashed in the sun as it was pulled through its preliminary orbits. Three times it passed above Devlin’s head before he allowed his body to contribute to the momentum, turning with the hammer, spinning with singular
Devlin frowned, and examined the hammer-handle dubiously. ‘Now why should you do a thing like that?’
Cribb shrugged. ‘Maybe there’s a drop of Erin blood in my veins.’
‘Ah!’ Devlin seemed to understand. He winked at Cribb and walked away, dangling the hammer like a toy.
During this conversation, the third hammer had been launched and had landed several yards short of the previous throws. Cribb retrieved it and towed it to the side of the throwing area. In his keenness to get clear before the whistle blew again, he practically butted his silk hat into the midriff of the third competitor.
Malone did not budge an inch. If Cribb’s forward motion had not been independently halted at the last possible instant, there is no question that the injuries would have been all on his side. ‘I do apologise,’ he said.
Malone put forward a massive hand for his hammer. The sections of his limbs not covered by the black merino of guernsey and drawers supported a growth of hair so abundant that it would not have wanted much imagination to believe him clothed from head to toe in black. When Cribb looked up into the two small eyes that, together with a once-fractured nose, were all that could be seen of Malone’s face behind a mass of glossy curls, he had the curious fancy that they were regarding him from the centre of a heap of blackberries. It was not a fruit he liked.
Malone took the hammer without a word and strode away. Cribb studied his vast, retreating figure. It was baffling that a man of those proportions could not hurl a sixteen pound weight farther than lesser mortals like Devlin and the Englishman. Possibly Malone was equally baffled.
The next throw from the Englishman drifted well off centre, but it was a long one that took him into the lead. ‘It’s a little beauty!’ he told Cribb, when he collected the hammer. ‘Let’s see if Uncle Sam can match that!’
Devlin’s throw, unhappily, was ten feet behind his first effort. Cribb discerned unmistakable aggression in the set of the Irish-American’s shoulders as he came forward for the malacca-handled hammer. ‘Did you see that throw of mine? I think you handed me a bum hammer, Mister. Are you sure about that Irish blood of yours?’
‘As sure as I am that you’ll beat him with your last throw,’ said Cribb, with all the passion he could raise. ‘I think you gave it too much height, if I might proffer an opinion. The shaft is giving you the extra whip. You have my word for that.’
‘D’you really think so?’ said Devlin, prepared to be convinced.
‘I had the very devil of a job pulling it out of the turf,’ said Cribb. ‘There’s power in that malacca, I promise you.’
‘There has to be. I shall need over a hundred feet to win this afternoon.’
At the other end, Malone was in the circle. His efforts with the hammer aped the style of the other competitors without achieving the same fluidity. Instead of swinging the hammerhead through a series of circles in a gradually accelerating movement, he somehow contrived to begin like a fly-wheel at full speed and end like a novice with a yo-yo. On sheer arm-power the hammer swung aloft and dropped like a plummet not twenty yards from the circle. Cribb decided it was prudent to let him collect the implement himself.
The Englishman’s third throw was no longer than his second, so it was open to the Americans to clinch the contest with their final efforts. For once in his life, Cribb gritted his teeth and hoped Britannia would not prevail. There were bigger things at issue than victory in a sporting competition. The winning of Devlin’s confidence was more important for England this afternoon.
The lead weight at the end of the malacca handle flashed in the sun as it was pulled through its preliminary orbits. Three times it passed above Devlin’s head before he allowed his body to contribute to the momentum, turning with the hammer, spinning with singular
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