Toward evening of the third day's fighting, some 30 men sat silently thinking, and when the sun had dropped behind vast Mont Real they had reconsidered and restruck every swing and slash of the three-day battle and each knew why and just where he had lost the prize, but they could do nothing. Nothing except congratulate the winner, a freckled mite of a Scotsman, Macdonald Smith.
All admitted that he had won a mickle battle, forging from behind to the top of the press of contestants with daring-do worthy of a new champion. Sturdy...
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