“Ach, I am used to do so,” said the Baron simply, and then burst out eagerly, “Some feat you must design for me at ze sports so zat I can show zem my strength, eh?”

“With the caber, for instance?”

The Baron had seen the caber tossed, and he shook his head.

“He is too big.”

“I might fit a strong spring in one end.”

But the Baron still seemed disinclined.  His friend reflected, and then suddenly exclaimed—­

“The village doctor keeps some chemical apparatus, I believe!  You’ll throw the hammer, Baron.  I can manage it.”

The Baron appeared mystified by the juxtaposition of ideas, but serenely expressed himself as ready to entrust this and all other arrangements for the Hechnahoul Gathering to the ingenious Count, as some small compensation for so conspicuously outshining him.

CHAPTER XXIV

The day of the Gathering broke gray and still, and the Baron, who was no weather prophet, declared gloomily—­

“It vill rain.  Donnerwetter!”

A couple of hours later the sun was out, and the distant hills shimmering in the heat haze.

“Himmel!  Ve are alvays lucky, Bonker!” he cried, and with gleeful energy brandished his dumb-bells in final preparation for his muscular exploits.

“We certainly have escaped hanging so far,” said the Count, as he drew on the trews which became his well-turned leg so happily.

His arrangements were admirable and complete, and by twelve o’clock the castle lawn looked as barbarically gay as the colored supplement to an illustrated paper.  Pipes were skirling, skirts fluttering, flags flapping; and as invitations had been issued to various magnates in the district, whether acquainted with the present peer or not, there were to be seen quite a number of dignified personages in divers shades of tartan, and parasols of all the hues in the rainbow.  The Baron was in his element.  He judged the bagpipe competition himself, and held one end of the tape that measured the jumps, besides delighting the whole assembled company by his affability and good spirits.

“Your performance comes next, I see,” said Eleanor Maddison, throwing him her brightest smile.  “I can’t tell you how I am looking forward to seeing you do it!”

The Baron started and looked at the programme in her hand.  He had been too excited to study it carefully before, and now for the first time he saw the announcement (in large type)—­

“7.  Lord Tulliwuddle throws the 85-lb. hammer.”

The sixth event was nearly through, and there—­ there evidently was the hammer in question being carried into the ring by no fewer than three stalwart Highlanders!  The Baron had learned enough of the pastimes of his adopted country to be aware that this gigantic weapon was something like four times as heavy as any hammer hitherto thrown by the hardiest Caledonian.