2. Heaving the Sheaf. A burlap sack filled with twenty pounds of hay had to be lifted with a three-pronged pitchfork and pitched over a crossbar that started at eighteen feet from the ground. It was another win for the raging bulls.
3. Putting the Stone. The contestant had to balance a sixteen-pound stone ball with one hand at shoulder height, then heave it. Another win for Bixby.
4. Throwing the Box. A fifty-six-pound boxweight with ring attached had to be flung over a bar. Moose County won but only by default when the leading Bixby contender ran afoul of the rules.
5. Tossing the Caber. This feat was performed with a twenty-foot cedar log weighing more than a hundred pounds, and it required skill as well as strength.
A number of big men took the field for the caber toss, but Moose County’s Boze Campbell was the most formidable.
“He’s the desk clerk,” Qwilleran told Big Mac. “A woodsman by trade. A latter-day Paul Bunyan, from what I hear.”
One by one the contenders tossed the pole in the air, hoping it would land at “twelve o’clock.” If it soared and then fell flat, the crowd would groan “Aw-w-w!” It was supposed to flip end-over-end in midair. That was the art! Each man had three tries.
To Qwilleran there was something suspenseful about the caber toss. He had his camera ready, and he snapped pictures of the entire ritual: Boze swaggering onto the field… Lenny saying something in his ear… Boze taking a confident stance at the end of the pole that lay on the ground. An official stood at the other end, facing Boze – then picked up his end and “walked it” hand-over-hand to an upright position. Boze was squatting with feet wide apart as the pole was leaned against his shoulder. He concentrated. With fingers interlocked he hoisted it to vertical. The crowd was silent as it balanced precariously. Then Boze ran awkwardly forward a few paces before tossing the caber. It soared! It flipped end over end! It landed as close to twelve o’clock as could be imagined.
Three times Boze accomplished the incredible feat, and the crowd surged onto the field, cheering and whooping, and Boze’s teammates lifted him to their shoulders. Photographers from all three county newspapers scurried about. The hero wore a bland smile.
“Historic event!” said Big Mac.
“Front page news,” said Qwilleran.
“Let’s get out of here before the Bixby crowd riots.”
“They won’t. The sheriff’s dog is here, and his mere presence keeps the rowdies under control.”
He had to go home and dress for dinner. Big Mac had to attend a business meeting of the curling club, of which he was treasurer. “Are you interested in curling, Qwill?”
“You mean, that sport where they slide big stones around a rink and sweep the ice furiously with little brooms?”
“Something of that sort.”
“It’s an old man’s game.”
“Not any more! It’s for all ages, male and female. It has Olympic status, requiring skill. And it’s a social sport.”
“How social can you be in temperatures below freezing?”
“We play on an indoor rink.”
“Well, I might be available,” Qwilleran said, “if you need a broomkeeper.”
A delegation of three from Indian Village – Polly and the Rikers – arrived at the barn at six-thirty and trooped through the back door into the kitchen with the nonchalance of frequent visitors.
Qwilleran asked, “Shall we have a libation before we go to the inn? Our reservation is for seven-thirty.”
“I’ll have the usual,” said Arch.
“The usual,” Mildred said.
“The usual,” Polly echoed.
While the drinks were being prepared, Polly filled the nut bowls, and the Rikers strolled about with nosy familiarity: “You’ve got some new barstools! What did you do with the old ones?… Where are the kitties?… Koko’s on top of the fireplace, looking at us suspiciously…. There’s Yum Yum on a barstool with her dainty paws crossed. She’s adorable!”
Arch spotted the newly acquired wastebasket. “It’s a Chinese water bucket! Not terribly old – probably eighteenth century.” He hefted it by the carved wooden handle. “It weighs a ton!”
“That’s so Yum Yum can’t tip it over,” Qwilleran said, “when she fishes in the wastebasket for treasures.” He passed a tray with one dry sherry, one Scotch, one dubonnet, one ginger ale.
Arch was always quick with a toast. “Here’s to old friends who know you well but still like you!” He helped himself to a handful from the nut bowl. “Brazil nuts! Qwill’s going first-class.”
“Honey, go easy on the Brazil nuts,” his wife said. “They’re loaded with calories!”
“That’s what makes them good!”
Polly complimented Mildred on her interview with Chef Wingo.
“If he’s so good,” Arch asked, “why did he leave Chicago for a hick town like this?”
“Why did you come up here?” Qwilleran retorted. The two men had known each other since kindergarten in Chicago.
“Because I’m big-hearted, and you needed me to run the paper.”
“You don’t kid us! You wanted to get away from Down Below. You wanted to be a big frog in a small pond.”
