“You’ve got un beat a’ready, Jarge!”

“Well, I knowed it from the start!”

“Let un alone,” cried Simon, “’e’ve got another chance yet.”

“Much good it’ll do ’im!”

“Ah! might as well give in now, and take ‘is thrashin’ and ha’ done wi’ it.”

That my ruse had succeeded with the crowd was evident; they—­to a man—­believed I had done my best, and already regarded me as hopelessly beaten.  My chance of winning depended upon whether the smith, deluded into a like belief, should content himself with just beating my last throw, for, should he again exert his mighty strength to the uttermost, I felt that my case was indeed hopeless.

It was with a beating heart, therefore, that I watched him take his place for the last throw.  His face wore a confident smile, but nevertheless he took up the hammer with such a businesslike air that my heart sank, and, feeling a touch upon my arm, I was glad to turn away.  “I be goin’ to fetch a sponge and water,” said Simon.

“A sponge and water!”

“Ah!  Likewise some vinegar—­theer’s nothin’ like ’vinegar—­and remember—­the chin, a little to one side preferred.”

“So then you think I shall be beaten?”

“Why, I don’t say that, but it’s best to be prepared, aren’t it now?”

And, with a friendly nod, the Innkeeper turned away.  In that same minute there arose another shout from the crowd as they greeted Black George’s last throw, and Job, striding up, announced: 

“Ninety-eight!”

Then, while the air still echoed with their plaudits, I stepped into the ring, and, catching up the hammer, swung it high above my head, and, at the full length of my arms, began to wheel it.  The iron spun faster and faster till, setting my teeth, with the whole force of every fibre, every nerve, and muscle of my body, I let it fly.

The blood was throbbing at my temples and my breath coming fast as I watched its curving flight.  And now all voices were hushed so that the ring of the iron could be plainly heard as it struck the hard road, and all eyes watched Job, as he began pacing towards us.  As he drew nearer I could hear him counting to himself, thus: 

“Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred and one, one hundred and two—­one hundred and two!”

Next moment, as it seemed to me, an inarticulate Ancient was desperately trying to force me into my coat, wrong side first, and Simon was shaking my hand.

“You tricked me!” cried a voice, and turning, I found Black George confronting me, with clenched fists.

“And how did I trick you?”

“I could ha’ chucked farther nor that.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I thought you was beat.  I say you tricked me.”

“And I tell you the match was a fair one from start to finish!”