It had been no trick. The skill was equal, or, if
anything, the superior skill had been his. Strength, sheer
strength, had done it. He called for the drinks, and, still
dazed and pondering, held up his own arm, and looked at it as at
some new strange thing. He did not know this arm. It certainly
was not the arm he had carried around with him all the years.
The old arm? Why, it would have been play to turn down that
young husky's. But this arm--he continued to look at it with such
dubious perplexity as to bring a roar of laughter from the young
men.
This laughter aroused him. He joined in it at first, and then
his face slowly grew grave. He leaned toward the hammer-thrower.
"Son," he said, "let me whisper a secret. Get out of here and
quit drinking before you begin."
The young fellow flushed angrily, but Daylight held steadily on.
"You listen to your dad, and let him say a few. I'm a young man
myself, only I ain't. Let me tell you, several years ago for me
to turn your hand down would have been like committing assault
and battery on a kindergarten."
Slosson looked his incredulity, while the others grinned and
clustered around Daylight encouragingly.
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