Wil. Elliot, shoemaker, lead; Mr Henderson, schoolmaster, lead;
Rev. Isaac Stevenson, 2d stone; Wattie Dalgleish, shepherd, 2d stone;
Tam Johnston, blacksmith, 3d stone; Andrew Denholm, mason, 3d stone;
Laird Murray, skip. Laird Scott, skip.
The play was begun and continued with varying fortune: sometimes
one side scored, sometimes the other. The match was to consist of
thirty-one points; and at one o’clock when a halt was called for
refreshments, the scoring was tolerably even. The frost was beginning
to shew a slight tendency to give way, but this only nerved the players
to further exertions in sweeping up the stones on the somewhat dulled
ice. The scene in the forenoon had been a very lively one: but as the
afternoon approached and the game was nearing an end, the liveliness
was tempered with anxiety, which amounted almost to pain, as shot
after shot was ‘put in’ by one side, only to be cleverly ‘taken’ by
the other. ‘Soop! soop!’ was the incessant cry of the skips as from
their point of vantage they descried a lagging stone; or ‘Haud up!
I tell ye; haud up!’ when from that same point they beheld one of
their players’ stones approaching with sufficient velocity to do all
that was wanted. Anxiety was nearing a crisis. At half-past three the
game stood: Broughton thirty, Tweedsmuir twenty-nine. The game was
anybody’s. Coats had been cast as needless encumbrances; besoms were
clutched with determined firmness: the skips slightly pale with the
terrible excitement of the occasion, and the stake that was as it were
hanging in the balance: want of nerve on their part to direct, or on
the part of any one man to play, might decide the fate of the day. The
last end had come to be played, and Broughton having won the previous
end, was to lead. The shoemaker’s stone is played, and lies well over
the hog-score in good line with the tee, and on the road to promotion.
Tweedsmuir’s leading man, the schoolmaster, passes the souter’s stone
and lies in ‘the house.’ ‘Well played dominie!’ cries Laird Scott to
his lead. And so proceeds the ‘end’ till it comes to our friend the
mason’s turn to play; the blacksmith having just played his first stone
with but indifferent effect.
‘What do ye see o’ that stane Andrew?’ roars Laird Scott from the tee,
pointing at the same time to the winning stone of the other side,
which, however, was partially ‘guarded.’
‘I see the half o’ t.’
‘Then,’ says the laird, ‘make sure of it: tak it awa’, and if you rub
off the guard there’s no harm done.’
For a moment the mason steadies himself, settles his foot in the
crampet, and with a straight delivered shot shaves the guard and wicks
out the rival stone, himself lying in close to the tee, and _guarded_
both at the side and in front by stones belonging to his side.
The effect of such a shot as this, at so critical a period of the game,
was electric, and is not easily to be described. Enthusiasm on the part
of Tweedsmuir, dismay on that of Broughton. But there are yet several
stones to come: the order may again be reversed, and Andrew’s deftly
played shot may be yet taken. We shall see. The blacksmith, the third
player on the Broughton side, follows with his second stone, and though
by adhering to the direction of his skip he might have knocked off the
guard and so laid open Andrew’s winner, over-anxiety causes him to
miss the guard and miss everything. Thus is his second and last stone
unfortunately played for Broughton.
The mason has his second stone still to play for Tweedsmuir, and
before doing so Laird Scott thus accosts him: ‘Andrew my man, we are
lying shot now; we want but another to be game; and for the honour o’
Tweedsmuir I am going to give you the shot that will give it to us: do
ye see this port?’ pointing to an open part of the ice (in curling
phraseology a port) to the left of the tee, with a stone on each side.
‘I see the port sir.’
‘Well then,’ continued the laird, ‘I want you to fill that port; lay a
stone there Andrew, and there’s _a lade o’ meal at your door to-morrow
morning_.’
The stone is raised just for one instant with an easy backward sweep
of hand and arm, and delivered with a twist that curls it on and on by
degrees towards the spot required. Not just with sufficient strength
perhaps, but aligned to the point. In an instant the skip is master of
the situation. ‘Soop lads! O soop! soop her up—s-o-o-o-p—there now;
let her lie!’ as the stone curls into the ‘port,’ and lies a provoking
impediment to the opposite players. The pressure on players of both
sides is now too great to admit of many outward demonstrations. Stern
rigour of muscle stiffens every face as the two skips themselves now
leave the tee and take their places at the other end. The silence bodes
a something that no one cares to explain away, so great is the strain
of half-hope half-fear that animates every breast.
Laird Murray is directed by his adviser at the tee (the blacksmith) to
break-off the guard in front, but misses. Scott his antagonist, by a
skilfully played stone, puts on another guard still, in order to avoid
danger from Laird Murray’s second and last stone. One chance only now
apparently remains for the laird of Broughton, who requires but one
shot to reverse the order of things and retrieve the game, and he tries
it. It is one of those very difficult shots known amongst curlers as
an outwick. A stone of his side has lain considerably to the right
of the tee short of it, which if touched on the outer side might be
driven in towards the centre and perhaps lie shot. The inwick would be
easier, but that the stone is unfortunately guarded for that attempt.
He knows that Denholm’s first stone still lies the shot, and is guarded
both in front and at the side; and that with another, Tweedsmuir will
be thirty-one and game. The shot is risked—after other contingencies
have been duly weighed—but without the desired effect: the outlying
stone is certainly touched, which in itself was a good shot, but is not
sufficiently taken on the side to produce the desired effect. The laird
of Broughton pales visibly as the shot is missed, and mutters something
between his clenched teeth anything but complimentary to things in
general.
The last stone now lies by the foot of our Tweedsmuir laird, who calmly
awaits the word of direction from Andrew at the other end.
‘Laird!’ shouts the anxious mason, ‘there’s but the one thing for it,
and I’ve seen ye play a dafter-like shot. What would ye say to try an
inwick aff my last stane and lift this ane a foot?’ pointing to a stone
of his side which lay near, though still not counting; ‘that would give
us another shot, and the game!’
‘Well Andrew, that’s why I asked you to fill the port, for I saw what
_they_ didna see, that a wick and curl-in would be left: I think it may
be done. At any rate I can but try.’
Silence reigns o’er the rink: the sweepers on each side stand in
breathless suspense: the wick taken, as given by Andrew in advice to
the Laird, may proclaim Broughton beaten and Tweedsmuir the champion
parish of the county!
‘Stand back from behind, and shew me the stone with your besom, Andrew;
there.’
The suspense is soon broken, the last stone has sped on its mission,
the wick has been taken, a stone on Laird Scott’s side that was lying
farther from the tee than one of the opponents’, is ‘lifted’ into
second place, which with the mason’s winner makes exactly the magic
score of thirty-one! Like the thaw which after this long-continued
storm will be welcomed by man and beast alike, so does the thaw
now melt the frozen tongues of the players. Hats fly up in frenzy
of delight, and the phenomenon is witnessed (only to be witnessed
on ice) of a Scottish laird and his humble tenant in ecstatic
embrace. Flasks are produced, hands shaken by rivals as well as by
friends—though chiefly by friends: preparations are made to carry home
the paraphernalia of the roaring game: and while Betty congratulates
the laird and his guests on their victory, there is happiness in store
for Andrew Denholm, whose prowess so notably contributed to secure the
honour of Tweedsmuir.