s yon--so best lat well enough alone."

[Illustration: "IN BREATHLESS SILENCE THE GROUP WATCHED PEVERIL'S
MOVEMENTS"]

This advice was tendered in all sincerity, and was doubtless very
good, but Peveril was now too deeply interested in the novel contest
to accept defeat without a further effort. Besides, the stroke-oar of
a winning crew in the great Oxford-Cambridge boat-race, which is what
Dick Peveril had been only two months earlier, was not accustomed to
be beaten in athletic games.

So he, too, threw off his coat and bared the glorious right arm that
had at once been the pride of his college and the envy of every other
in the 'varsity. In breathless silence the little group of spectators
watched his movements, and when, with sharply exhaled breath, he
planted a crashing "facer" straight from the shoulder squarely upon
the leathern disk they sprang eagerly forward to note the result. For
an instant they gazed at each other blankly, for the needle, though
trembling violently, remained fixedly pointing at the figure 195.

Then they realized what had happened. Mark Trefethen's score had been
neither raised nor lowered, but had been duplicated. A double record
had been established, and that in a single contest. Such a thing had
never before happened in Red Jacket, where trials of strength and
skill similar to the one they had just witnessed were of frequent
occurrence. As the amazing truth broke upon them, they raised a great
shout of applause, and every man present pressed eagerly about the two
champions with cordially extended hands.

But Peveril and the old miner were already shaking hands with each
other, for Mark Trefethen had been the first to appreciate the result
of his opponent's blow, and had whirled around from his examination
of the dial to seize the young man's hand in both of his.

"Now I believe it, lad!" he cried. "Now I believe the story boy Tom
telled this night. I couldn't make it seem possible that you had
lifted him as he said, and so I wanted proof. Now I'm got it, and now
I know you for best man that's come to mines for many a year. Pray
God, lad, that you and me'll never have a quarrel to settle wi' bare
fists, for I'm free to say I'd rayther meet any ither two men in the
Jackets than the one behind the fist that struck yon blow."

"You will never meet him in a quarrel if I can help it, Mr.
Trefethen," replied Peveril, flushing with gratified pride, "for I
can't imagine anything that woul