The sun had at last gone down behind the dike; in his stead rose a red violet glimmer; now and then black crows flew by and for moments looked gilded: evening had come. But on the fens the dark mass of people were moving still farther away from the already distant houses toward the barrel; an especially good throw would have to reach it now. The people of the marshes were having their turn: Hauke was to throw. The chalky barrel showed white against the broad evening shadow that now fell from the dike across the plain. "I guess you'll leave it to us this time," called one of the people of the upper land, for it was very close; they had the advantage of at least ten feet. Hauke's lean figure was just stepping out of the crowd; the grey eyes in his long Frisian face were looking ahead at the barrel; in his hand which hung down he held the ball. "I suppose the bird is too big for you," he heard Ole Peters's grating voice in this instant behind his ears; "shall we exchange it for a grey pot?" Hauke turned round and looked at him with steady eyes: "I'm throwing for the marshes," he said. "Where do you belong?" "I think, I belong there too; I suppose you're throwing for Elke Volkerts!" "Go!" shouted Hauke and stood in position again. But Ole pushed his head still nearer to him. Then suddenly, before Hauke could do anything against it himself, a hand clutched the intruder and pulled him back, so that the fellow reeled against his comrades. It was not a large hand that had done it; for when Hauke turned his head round for a moment he saw Elke Volkerts putting her sleeve to rights, and her dark brows looked angry in her heated face. Now something like steely strength shot into Hauke's arm; he bent forward a little, rocked the ball a few times in his hand; then he made the throw, and there was dead silence on both sides. All eyes followed the flying ball, one could hear it whizz as it cut the air; suddenly, already far from the starting point, it was covered by the wings of a silver gull that came flying from the dike with a scream. At the same time, however, one could hear something bang from a distance against the barrel. "Hurrah for Hauke!" called the people from the marshes, and cries went through the crowd: "Hauke! Hauke Haien has won the game!" He, however, when all were crowding round him, had thrust his hand to one side to seize another; and even when they called again: "Why are you still standing there, Hauke? The ball is in the barrel!"--he only nodded and did not budge from his place. Only when he felt that the little hand lay fast in his, he said: "You may be right; I think myself I have won."