Half a mile or so from town they came to the smelting works, as Harrison had predicted, shut down for the afternoon. Beyond the line of low buildings, a flat open field, the grass burned brown by the sun, stretched away for a quarter of a mile or more. The heat of the afternoon was just changing to the cool of evening, and, in the center of the field, true to Harrison's prophecy, two rival ball teams were playing with all the zest of boys. Nearer at hand a dozen brawny miners were throwing the hammer. Even as Gordon looked, one of them picked up the missile, swung it around his head, and hurled it far out from the circle. The stranger's eyes gleamed. "Rotten form," he muttered under his breath, and then, with apparent irrelevance, he added, "and they say there's no such thing as luck." They had reached the little group, and Harrison, evidently well known and well liked, was greeted with rough good will. Responding, he introduced the visitor. "Boys," he said, "let me make you acquainted with Mr. Gordon. He's another one o' these eastern minin' sharps, come out on purpose to buy the whole township, if we'll give him a cheap enough rate on it; so you want to look out an' treat him good." There was a general laugh, in which Gordon joined. "Oh, we easterners are easy, I admit," he said good-naturedly. "Don't soak it to me too hard, that's all I ask. Jack's got no license, though, to go to talking business on Saturday afternoon, just for the fun of getting after me. We're on a vacation now. Let's see somebody throw that hammer again." "That's right," cried Harrison; "let Bill Martin give her a toss. He's the man can do it." The others drew back, and as Martin willingly enough stepped forward, Gordon looked him over with undisguised admiration. He was perhaps thirty-five years of age, well over six feet, and a much bigger man than Harrison even. His woolen shirt, open at the neck, showed the play of the corded muscles in his massive throat and neck, and his uprolled sleeves disclosed the arms of a giant. Taking his stand somewhat awkwardly, he swung the hammer stiffly around his head, and then, with one final tremendous heave, sent it hurling a good ten feet beyond the farthest mark. There was a chorus of good-natured approval. "Put the tape on it," cried three or four at once, and the hundred-foot measure was slowly unrolled until the mark was reached, and then pulled tight. "Ninety-four feet, eight inches," called the measurer, and there was another murmur of satisfaction. Harrison turned to Gordon. "How's that?" he grinned. "Beat that back east?" Gordon smiled too. "Well, that's a good throw," he answered noncommittally, "a mighty good throw from a stand, but the real way to throw a hammer's to turn with it; you can get up so much more speed that way." The little group gazed at him in astonishment. One or two grinned derisively. Old Jim Stickney, with deep meaning, spat upon the ground, then looked up at Gordon.