Frank Merriwell's Champions: or, All in the Game. Standish Burt L.
but the mishap seemed to have taken the energy out of him, and the arrow did not fly as far as the target.
Ephraim Gallup came forward in his turn with a queer grin on his thin, homely face.
“Gol darned if I don’t feel ez if I could shoot this thing clean through that old tree!” he muttered, as he fitted an arrow to the bow. “Do you shoot at the thing, er over it?”
“Over it,” said Merriwell. “In shooting so great a distance you must allow for the trajectory, or curve. If you don’t, your arrow will drop below.”
Merriwell smiled as he said this, for he had already given Gallup careful instructions and had seen the boy from Vermont make some good shots.
Though Gallup stood in an awkward position, he drew the arrow with care. It was seen to strike near the center of the target, and then the marker called:
“In the red – seven.”
“Good for you!” cried Diamond. “That’s two better than I did.”
“Somebody’s got to hustle ef they beat us this day, an’ don’t yeou fergit it,” said Gallup, that queer grin still on his face.
Ward Hammond faced the target with a confident air. He was a good shot with the bow, and was well aware of the fact.
“In the gold – nine!” cried the marker, as Hammond’s arrow struck, and then the Blue Mountain boys sent up a cheer.
Merriwell followed, and let slip the arrow with a steady hand.
“In the gold – nine!” cried the marker, again, almost before Hammond’s friends had ceased their cheering, and then it was the turn of Merriwell’s followers.
Toots would not shoot, excusing himself by saying he knew he would kill somebody if he did, and when Dunnerwust came again to the scratch there was a cautious widening of the semicircle gathered about the archers.
Hans came near shooting himself, this time, for the arrow slipped, while he was trying to fit it to the string, and flew skyward, past his nose.
“Look oudt!” Hans squawked. “Uf dot comes down your head on, I vill ged hurt!”
It fell near Gallup, who stepped nimbly to one side as it descended.
“Look here, b’jee!” he growled. “If you’ve got a grutch agin’ me, say so, but don’t go shootin’ arrers at me zif you was an’ Injun an’ me a Pilgrum Father.”
“Oxcuse me!” supplicated the Dutch boy. “Dot string slipped der arrow py ven I dry to fix him. Shust eferypoty stant avay off, now, so I vill nod ged hurted.”
The semicircle widened this time to a very respectable distance. Hans spat on his hands, grasped the plush handle in the middle of the bow, fitted the arrow and drew it down with exceeding care. When he had sighted with his open right eye till every one was growing impatient, he let the bowstring slip.
“In the white – one!” shouted the marker.
In all his practice Hans had never before struck an arrow in the target, and he was so pleased now that he fairly hugged himself with delight.
“Vot vos id you tolt me?” he cried, in great elation. “We peen goin’ to vin dis game so easy as falling a log off!”
“Yes, it’s won!” said Hammond, with a perceptible sneer. “There is no doubt, Dutchy, that you’re a shooter from Shootville. If you hit the white again, it will count two.”
“You pet yourselluf der v’ite vill hid me so many as sixdeen dimes alretty!” cried Hans, stung by the sneer.
Hammond struck the gold again, but Merriwell got only the red. Twice this was repeated; after which Merriwell put his arrow in the gold three times in succession, while Hammond dropped to the red, and once to the blue, which last counted only five.
It quickly developed that there were good archers on both sides, and the contest waxed hot. Diamond, Rattleton and Gallup shot well, as did also Colson and Tetlow. Six times the yellow-haired, big-jointed boy from Vermont put his arrow in the gold, though he faced the target so awkwardly that it did not seem possible he could handle a bow at all.
As for Browning, he had been left at the camp, muffled up in a blanket and in the grip of another chill.
“I didn’t learn to knock the sparrers out o’ dad’s old barn with a bow an’ arrer fer nuthin’!” Gallup grinned, when some one praised his marksmanship.
In addition to Ward Hammond, Craig Carter, of the Blue Mountain boys, shot excellently, as did also Dan Matlock and some half dozen others.
The contest grew hotter and hotter. The club scores – the average scores of the combined membership of each club – ran very evenly, and as the shoot drew toward its close, the count of the club scores showed five in favor of the boys of Lake Lily, with Ward Hammond’s score three more than Merriwell’s, and the best that had been made.
“Don’t l’ave him bate yez, Merry, me b’y!” Barney Mulloy whispered.
“You may be sure I’ll do my best, Barney,” responded Merriwell, compressing his lips as he stepped again to the line and took up the bow.
“Seven – in the red!” cried the marker.
Then, as Ward Hammond followed:
“Nine – in the gold!”
There were only three more rounds, twenty-one of the twenty-four rounds of the contest having been shot.
“Here are the leading scores, as revised after that last shoot,” announced the youth who kept the score card, reading from the card, while the excited and anxious lads gathered closely about him. “Ward Hammond, 145; Frank Merriwell, 140.”
The Blue Mountain boys swung their caps and sent up a cheer of delight.
Again Frank faced the target and let his arrow fly.
“Nine – in the gold!” came the voice of the marker.
“Good boy!” cried Harry Rattleton. “That gives you one hundred and forty-nine. Do it another time.”
Frank Merriwell did it another time; and when the marker called “nine,” Ward Hammond became noticeably rattled, for he had made only seven in the previous shot.
Hammond’s hands were seen to shake as he drew on the bowstring, and when the marker called, “only five – in the blue,” his dark face grew almost colorless.
“One more round,” said the score marker. “Frank Merriwell now has 158; Ward Hammond, 157.”
The excitement was at fever pitch as Merriwell again went forward to shoot.
He knew that everything depended on this last shot. If he could again hit the gold, it would then be impossible for Hammond to beat him, for he already led Hammond by one and Hammond could do no more than strike the gold. Therefore he went about his preparations with the utmost coolness and care.
Grasping the bow in the middle with his left hand, he placed the notch of the feathered arrow on the middle of the string with his right, resting the shaft across the bow on the left side just above and touching his left hand. Then, with the first three fingers of his right hand, which were covered with leather tips to protect them, he grasped the string and the arrow-neck.
It was an inspiring sight just to look on Merriwell at this supreme moment, as he stood ready to shoot. He seemed to be unconscious that there was another person in the world. His body was gracefully erect, his left side slightly turned toward the target, his left arm rigidly extended, and his right hand drawing steadily on the string of the bow. There was a shining light in his eyes and on his face a slight flush.
The profound silence that had fallen on every one was broken by the twang of the bowstring, by the arrow’s whizzing flight and by the audible sighs that went up as it sped on its way.
“Nine – in the gold!” called the marker, with a thrill in his usually monotonous voice.
But there was no cheering, though Rattleton