like a sledge-hammer, and let drive a blow at "Blacky"
that sent the pointer up to 180.

"Now, lad, try again," he remarked, with a self-satisfied air; "and
remember, what I should have telled thee afore, that the man who lets
pointer slip back owes beer to the crowd."

Wondering how he should cancel the indebtedness thus innocently
incurred, and also at the strangeness of such proceedings on the part
of one who had just invited him to a much-longed-for supper, Peveril
again stepped up and delivered a nervous blow against the unresisting
leathern pad, driving the pointer to 184.

The miner's shout of "Well done, lad! That's spunky," attracted the
idlers at the bar and brought them to the scene of contest. They
arrived just in time to see Trefethen deliver his second blow, the
force of which drove the sensitive needle six points farther on, or
until it registered 190.

With a flush of pride on his strongly marked face, the old Cornishman
exclaimed, "There's a mark for thee lad, but doan't 'ee strike 'less
thee can better it, for I'd like it to stand for a while."

Peveril only smiled in answer, and, taking a quick forward step,
planted so vigorous a blow upon the painted leather that the pointer
gained a single interval. So small were the spaces that at first it
was thought not to have moved; but when a closer examination showed it
to indicate 191, a murmur of approbation went up from the spectators.
Mark Trefethen said not a word, but, throwing off his coat and baring
his corded arm for a mighty effort, he again took place before the
machine. Carefully measuring his distance, he drew back and delivered
a blow into which he threw the whole weight of his body. As though
galvanized into action, the needle leaped up four points and
registered 195.

"A record! A record!" shouted the spectators, while the miner turned a
face beaming with triumph towards his athletic young antagonist. On
many an occasion had he played at solitaire fisticuffs with that
leathern dummy, but never before had he struck it such a mighty blow,
and now he did not believe that another in all Red Jacket could equal
the feat he had just performed.

"Lat it stand, lad! Lat it stand!" he said, good-humoredly, but in a
tone unmistakably patronizing. "You've done enough to take front rank,
for not more than three men in all the Jackets have ever beat your
figure. Besides, the beer is on the house now for a record, but 'twill
be on any man who lower