"Two!" some one cried.
"Two was the bet."
"They didn't lift that last sack," Kearns protested. "They only lifted seven hundred and fifty."
But Daylight grandly brushed aside the confusion.
"What's the good of you-all botherin' around that way?
What's one more sack?
If I can't lift three more, I sure can't lift two.
Put 'em in."
He stood upon the chairs, squatted, and bent his shoulders down till his hands closed on the rope.
He shifted his feet slightly, tautened his muscles with a tentative pull, then relaxed again, questing for a perfect adjustment of all the levers of his body.
French Louis, looking on sceptically, cried out,
"Pool lak hell, Daylight!
Pool lak hell!"
Daylight's muscles tautened a second time, and this time in earnest, until steadily all the energy of his splendid body was applied, and quite imperceptibly, without jerk or strain, the bulky nine hundred pounds rose from the door and swung back and forth, pendulum like, between his legs.
Olaf Henderson sighed a vast audible sigh.
The Virgin, who had tensed unconsciously till her muscles hurt her, relaxed.
While French Louis murmured reverently:—
"M'sieu Daylight, salut!
Ay am one beeg baby.
You are one beeg man."
Daylight dropped his burden, leaped to the floor, and headed for the bar.
"Weigh in!" he cried, tossing his sack to the weigher, who transferred to it four hundred dollars from the sacks of the two losers.
"Surge up, everybody!" Daylight went on.
"Name your snake-juice!
The winner pays!"
"This is my night!" he was shouting, ten minutes later.
"I'm the lone he-wolf, and I've seen thirty winters.
This is my birthday, my one day in the year, and I can put any man on his back.
Come on, you-all!
I'm going to put you-all in the snow.
Come on, you chechaquos [1] and sourdoughs[2], and get your baptism!"
The rout streamed out of doors, all save the barkeepers and the singing Bacchuses.
Some fleeting thought of saving his own dignity entered MacDonald's head, for he approached Daylight with outstretched hand.
"What?
You first?" Daylight laughed, clasping the other's hand as if in greeting.
"No, no," the other hurriedly disclaimed. "Just congratulations on your birthday.
Of course you can put me in the snow.
What chance have I against a man that lifts nine hundred pounds?"
MacDonald weighed one hundred and eighty pounds, and Daylight had him gripped solely by his hand; yet, by a sheer abrupt jerk, he took the saloon-keeper off his feet and flung him face downward in the snow.
In quick succession, seizing the men nearest him, he threw half a dozen more.
Resistance was useless.
They flew helter-skelter out of his grips, landing in all manner of attitudes, grotesquely and harmlessly, in the soft snow.
It soon became difficult, in the dim starlight, to distinguish between those thrown and those waiting their turn, and he began feeling their backs and shoulders, determining their status by whether or not he found them powdered with snow.
"Baptized yet?" became his stereotyped question, as he reached out his terrible hands.
Several score lay down in the snow in a long row, while many others knelt in mock humility, scooping snow upon their heads and claiming the rite accomplished.
But a group of five stood upright, backwoodsmen and frontiersmen, they, eager to contest any man's birthday.
Graduates of the hardest of man-handling schools, veterans of multitudes of rough-and-tumble battles, men of blood and sweat and endurance, they nevertheless lacked one thing that Daylight possessed in high degree—namely, an almost perfect brain and muscular coordination.
It was simple, in its way, and no virtue of his.
He had been born with this endowment.
His nerves carried messages more quickly than theirs; his mental processes, culminating in acts of will, were quicker than theirs; his muscles themselves, by some immediacy of chemistry, obeyed the messages of his will quicker than theirs.