Frank Merriwell's Champions: or, All in the Game. Standish Burt L.
Merriwell was stringing his bow and glancing off toward the target. It was a thirty-pound lancewood bow, with horn notches at the tips, a handsome bow, and a good one, as he had reason to know.
The target was set at a supposed distance of sixty yards from the archers. It was a flat, circular pad of twisted straw, four feet in diameter, and it was faced with cloth, on which was painted a central yellow disk, called the gold. Around this disk was drawn a band of red, and next to it a band of blue, then one of black, and finally one of white.
“I suppose you understand how the scores are to be counted?” inquired Hammond, glad to change the subject, for he did not like the look that had come into Diamond’s dark face. “A hit in the gold counts nine, in the red seven, in the blue five, in the black three, and in the white one.”
“And if you miss the gol darned thing altogether?” drawled the boy from Vermont.
“You’ll likely lose an arrow somewhere down there in the woods,” Hammond laughed.
Craig Carter, a sinewy lad of about seventeen, Hammond’s most intimate friend and admirer, stepped forward with drawn bow and placed himself in readiness to shoot, as his name came first on the list.
“We’re not ready yet,” objected Merriwell, noting the action and again glancing toward the target. “The distance hasn’t been measured.”
“We measured it before you came,” said Hammond, with an uneasy look.
“It is only fair that it should be measured in our presence,” continued Frank. “Errors can happen, you know, and as the rules call for sixty yards and we have been practicing for that we don’t want to run any risks by shooting at any other distance.”
No one knew better than Ward Hammond how essential it is in archery shooting to know the exact distance that is to be shot over.
Hammond’s uneasiness seemed to communicate itself to other members of the Blue Mountain Athletic Club.
“Get the tape measure,” Hammond commanded, addressing Craig Carter.
Carter gave his bow and arrows to another member of the club and hurried into one of the cottages. From this cottage he was seen to rush into another and then another, and came back in a few moments with the announcement that the distance would have to be stepped, as somehow the tape measure had been mislaid and he could not find it.
Harry Rattleton promptly drew a tape measure from one of his pockets.
“You will find that this is as true as a die,” he asserted, smilingly passing it to Hammond. “Stretch it across the ground there, and I’ll help you do the measuring, if you’re willing.”
“Certainly,” said Hammond, critically eying the tape. “You will do as well as any one.”
Rattleton took one end of the line and ran with it out toward the target, and Hammond put the other on the ground. Rattleton marked the point, and Hammond moved up to it.
“The distance is five yards too short,” Rattleton announced, when the measurement had been made.
“This line is not right,” declared Hammond, white with inward rage.
“Send to the village and get another, then,” said Merriwell. “A dozen if you like. Or take another look for your own.”
“Of course we’ll set the target where you say it ought to be,” fumed Hammond, who had hoped to take a mean advantage, which had been prevented by the true eye of Frank Merriwell.
What made the discovery so bitter to Hammond was the knowledge that he had injured the chances of himself and his friends in the contest, for they had done nearly all of their practicing at the false distance. His attempted cheating had recoiled on his own head.
Craig Carter again took his bow and stepped forward to shoot. He held himself easily and gracefully and drew the arrow to the head with a steady hand.
Whir-r-r – thud!
The shaft, in its whirring course through the air, arose higher than the top of the target, but dropped lower just before it hit, and struck in the pad of twisted straw with a dull thud.
“Five – in the blue!” called the marker, coming out from behind the tree where he had screened himself, and drawing the arrow from the target.
“Heavens! Can’t I do better than that?” Carter growled.
Sep Colson had the lists of the members of the two clubs, and he called Jack Diamond’s name next.
Diamond stepped forward confidently and let his arrow fly.
“In the blue – five!” announced the marker.
“Well, it’s a tie, anyway!” said Diamond, with a disappointed laugh.
“By chaowder, it ain’t so derned easy to hit that air thing as it might be!” drawled Gallup. “I think I’d stand a heap sight better show to strike gold with a shovel an’ pick in Alasky.”
Dan Matlock, one of the boys of the Blue Mountain Club, came next, and then Hans Dunnerwust’s name was called.
“Shoost you vatch me!” cried the roly-poly Dutch boy, as he advanced and spat on his hands before taking up the bow. “I pet you your life I preaks der recort.”
There was a howl of derision at this from the Blue Mountain boys, and even the Dutch boy’s friends joined in the laugh.
“Vell, you may laugh at dot uf you don’t vant to,” he exclaimed, “put maype you don’t laugh on der oder side your mouts uf pime-py. Ged avay oudt! I vas goin’ to shoot der arrow oudt mit dot golt, py shimminy, und don’d you vorgid me!”
He drew the bow slowly up to his face, shut one eye and squinted along the arrow. Then he put the bow down, with a triumphant laugh.
“Who vas id say to me avhile ago dot dis pow veigh dirty pounds, yet alretty? Vy, id can lift me like id vos an infant.”
“Go on and shoot,” said Merriwell. “The bow doesn’t weigh thirty pounds. It takes a thirty-pound pull to bend it. That’s why it is called a thirty-pound bow.”
“So, dot vos id, eh?” queried Dunnerwust, looking the bow over curiously. “Id dakes dirty pounds to bent me! Vell, here I vos go ag’in. Look oudt eferypoty.”
His fingers slipped from the arrow and the bowstring twanged prematurely.
This was followed by a howl from Toots, who dropped to the ground and began to roll over as if in great agony.
CHAPTER III – SHOOTING AT THE DISK OF GOLD
“Oh, mah goodness, I’s done killed!” Toots gurgled. “I’s done shot clean through de haid. O-oh, Lordy! Oh, mah soul!”
“Poly hoker!” gasped Rattleton, who saw the arrow sticking in the colored boy’s cap, which was lying on the ground. “I’m afraid he is hurt this time.”
Frank leaped to Toots’ side and lifted him to his feet.
Hans Dunnerwust had dropped the bow and stood staring at his work, his round cheeks the color of ashes.
“You’re not hurt!” exclaimed Merriwell, after a hasty examination, giving the colored boy a shake to bring him to his senses. “The arrow cut through your cap and scratched the skin on the top of your head, but you are not hurt. Stand up, now, and stop your howling!”
Toots sank to a camp chair, and made a sickly attempt at a grin.
“Wo-oh!” he gasped. “It meks me have de fevah an’ chillins jes’ lack Mistah Browning to fink about an arrum stickin’ frough mah haid. I bet yo’ fo’ dollars I don’t git hit no mo’! I’ll git behind dem shooters de nex’ time.”
“But Dunnerwust is just as liable to shoot backwards as forwards,” declared Rattleton, who was ready for a laugh, now that he knew Toots was unhurt. “He’s like the cross-eyed man. You can’t be sure that he’s going to shoot in the direction he looks.”
“Handle