s 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.

"Teufel! Bonker vill make a fool of me," he muttered, and hastily
bursting from the circle of spectators, hurried towards the Count, who
appeared to be busied in keeping the curious away from the Chieftain's
hammer.

"Bonker, vat means zis?" he demanded.

"Your hammer," smiled the Count.

"A hamme