"Would you show us?" he asked, with mild and deceptive politeness. "We all hail from Missouri here." Harrison looked distressed. He felt in a way responsible for the stranger. "Oh, hell, Jim," he expostulated, "ain't you got no manners?" Gordon laughed easily. "I guess it's up to me, boys," he said quietly, and, leisurely removing his coat, collar and tie, he laid them methodically on the ground. The group eyed him with surprised interest. Stickney grinned malevolently and moved away. "Goin' to git out o' range, boys," he said; "don't want to git hit." Gordon showed no resentment, but on the contrary nodded with the utmost cheerfulness. "That's a good idea," he said; "it's a long time since I've thrown one of these things. Can't tell what'll happen. I don't know that I ought to be throwing, anyway. My lungs aren't any too strong." Harrison, in mute distress, dreading a scene, laid a hand on his arm. "Don't let 'em make a fool of you," he whispered; "they'll tell it all over the county; unless," he added, "you really can throw the darned thing." Gordon nodded in quick appreciation of the other's good will. "Don't you worry, Jack," he whispered in answer; "I wouldn't try it if I couldn't get by. We've got to take the good chances when they come along. They're not apt to turn around and come back again." Harrison looked puzzled, and a little dubious, but as Gordon took his stand within the circle the miner's face cleared. There was a masterful ease in the way in which the easterner took his position very different from the awkward pose of the others. Once, twice, three times, the hammer circled around his head, and then, like lightning, he spun around in his tracks, once, twice, so quickly that the eye could scarcely follow the whirling missile. Then, in a flash, it leaped from his hands, and Gordon was left standing motionless in the ring, while the hammer shot up and out in a high, graceful curve, sailing along as if on wings until it landed with a thud so far beyond Martin's mark as to make comparison ridiculous. There was silence, bewildered, complete, absolute. Gordon, not seeming to notice, stepped from the circle. "A little low," he said, with a note of apology in his tone, "and I didn't quite get my weight behind it. A little out of practice, I guess, but the turn's a great thing." And then over the group swept a sudden revulsion, and there burst forth a mighty roar of laughter. Stickney spat again, but, if the phrase be permissible, with a far different intonation; and then voiced the sentiment of the crowd. "Well, by God," he cried nasally, "all I can say is I'm glad you ain't kept in steady practice, an' I'll say further that you can bet I ain't wastin' a mite of sympathy on them pore weak lungs o' yourn. No, sir, I ain't, an' not by a damned sight, neither." Bill Martin eyed the stranger with increased respect. "I'd like to know that trick," he volunteered. "Want to learn it to me?"