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 hammer zat takes tree men——”

“Hush!” whispered the Count. “They are only holding it down!”

The Baron laid his hand upon the round enormous head, and started.

“It is not iron!” he gasped. “It is of rubber.”

“Filled with hydrogen,” breathed the Count in his ear. “Just swing it once and let go—and, I say, mind it doesn't carry you away with it.”

The chief bared his arms and seized the handle; his three clansmen let go; and then, with what seemed to the breathless spectators to be a merely trifling effort of strength, he dismissed the projectile upon the most astounding journey ever seen even in that land of brawny hammer-hurlers. Up, up, up it soared, over the trees; high above the topmost turret of the castle, and still on and on and ever upwards till it became a mere speck in the zenith, and at last faded utterly from sight.

Then, and not till then, did the pent-up applause break out into such a roar of cheering as Hechnahoul had never heard before in all its long history.

“Eighty-five pounds of pig-iron gone straight to heaven!” gasped the Silver King. “Guess that beats all records!”

“America must wake up!” frowned Ri.

Meanwhile the Baron, after bowing in turn towards all points of the compass, turned confidentially to his friend.

“Vill not ze men that carried it——?”

“I've told 'em you'd give 'em a couple of sovereigns apiece.”

The Baron came from an economical nation.

“Two to each!”

“My dear fellow, wasn't it worth it?”

The Baron grasped his hand.

“Ja, mine Bonker, it vas! I vill pay zem.”

Radiant and smiling, he returned to receive the congratulations of his guests, dreaming that his triumph was complete, and that nothing more arduous remained than pleasant dalliance alternately with his Eleanor and his Eva. But he speedily discovered that hurling an inflated hammer heavenwards was child's play as compared with the simultaneous negotiation of a double wooing. The first person to address him was the millionaire, and he could not but feel a shiver of apprehension to note that he was evidently in the midst of a conversation with Mr. Gallosh.

“I must congratulate you, Lord Tulliwuddle,” said Mr. Maddison, “and I must further congratulate my daughter upon the almost miraculous feat you have performed for her benefit. You know, I dare say”—here he turned to Mr. Gallosh—“that this very delightful entertainment was given primarily in my Eleanor's honor?”

“Whut!” exclaimed the merchant. “That's—eh—that's scarcely the fac's as we've learned them. But his lordship will be able to tell you best himself.”

His lordship smiled affably upon both, murmured something incoherent, and passed on hastily towards the scarlet parasol of Eleanor. But he had no sooner reached it than he paused and would have turned had she not seen him, for under a blue parasol beside her he espied, too late, the fair face of Eva, and too clearly perceived that the happy maidens had been comparing notes, with the result that neither looked very happy now.

“I hope you do enjoy ze sports,” he began, endeavoring to distribute this wish as equally as possible.

“Miss Gallosh has been remarkably fortunate in her weather,” said Eleanor, and therewith gave him an uninterrupted view of her sunshade.

“Miss Maddison has seen you to great advantage, Lord Tulliwuddle,” said Eva, affording him the next instant a similar prospect of silk.

The unfortunate chief recoiled from this ungrateful reception of his kindness. Only one refuge, one mediator, he instinctively looked for; but where could the Count have gone?

“Himmel! Has he deserted me?” he muttered, frantically elbowing his way in search of him.

But this once it happened that the Count was engaged upon business of his own. Strolling outside the ring of spectators, with a view to enjoying a cigar and a little relaxation from the anxieties of stage-management, his attention had been arrested in a singular and flattering way. At that place where he happened to be passing stood an open carriage containing a girl and an older lady, evidently guests from the neighborhood personally unknown to his lordship, and just as he went by he heard pronounced in a thrilling whisper—“THAT must be Count Bunker!”

The Count was too well-bred to turn at once, but it is hardly necessary to say that a few moments later he casually repassed the carriage; nor will it astonish any who have been kind enough to follow his previous career with some degree of attention to learn that when opposite the ladies he paused, looked from them to the enclosure and back again, and presently raising his feathered bonnet, said in the most ingratiating tones—

“Pardon me, but I am requested by Lord Tulliwuddle to show any attention I can to the comfort of his guests. Can you see well from where you are?”

The younger lady with an eager air assured him that they saw perfectly, and even in the course of the three or four sentences she spoke he was able to come to several conclusions regarding her: that her companion was in a subsidiary and doubtless salaried position; that she herself was decidedly attractive to look upon; that her voice had spoken the whispered words; and that her present animated air might safely be attributed rather to the fact that she addressed Count Bunker than to the subject-matter of her reply.

No one possessed in a higher degree than the Count the nice art of erecting a whole conversation upon the foundation of the lightest phrase. He contrived a reply to the lady's answer, was able to put the most natural question next, to follow that with a happy stroke of wit, and within three minutes to make it seem the most obvious thing in the world that he should be saying

“I am sure that Lord Tulliwuddle will never forgive me if I fail to learn the names of any visitors who have honored him to-day.”

“Mine,” said the girl, her color rising slightly, but her glance as kind as ever, “is Julia Wallingford. This is my friend Miss Minchell.”

The Count bowed.

“And may I introduce myself as a friend of Tulliwuddle's, answering to the name of Count Bunker.”

Again Miss Wallingford's color rose. In a low and ardent voice she began

“I am so glad to meet you! Your name is already——”

But at that instant, when the Count was bending forward to catch the words and the lady bending down to utter them, a hand grasped him by the sleeve, and the Baron's voice exclaimed,

“Come, Bonker, quickly here to help me!”

He would fain have presented his lordship to the ladies, but the Baron was too hurried to pause, and with a parting bow he was reluctantly borne off to assist his friend out of his latest dilemma.

“Pooh, my dear Baron!” he cried, when the situation was explained to him; “you couldn't have done more damage to their hearts if you had hurled your hammer at them! A touch of jealousy was all that was needed to complete your conquests. But for me you have spoiled the most promising affair imaginable. There goes their carriage trotting down the drive! And I shall probably never know whether my name was already in her heart or in her prayers. Those are the two chief receptacles for gentlemen's names, I believe—aren't they, Baron?”

On his advice the rival families were left to the soothing influences of a good dinner and a night's sleep, and he found himself free to ponder over his interrupted adventure.

“Undoubtedly one feels all the better for a little appreciation,” he reflected complacently. “I wonder if it was my trews that bowled her over?”