“Goddamit!” shouted Flanagan, ramming down the telephone. Willard Clay did not respond immediately, but sat opposite his employer in the Trans-America caravan, patiently waiting for him to explain himself.
Flanagan began chewing on his unlit cigar. “Those horsecocks up in Cedar City won’t come up with their ten grand,” he said finally. “They want the runners for free.”
He shook his head and looked to his right at a map of the United States, on which the Trans-America route had been charted, each fee-paying town marked with a Stars and Stripes flag. He pulled out the Cedar City flag and hurled it to the floor.
“How come?” asked Willard, carefully picking up the flag and placing it on the desk.
Flanagan shrugged and lit his cigar. “They must have got it on the grapevine that the mayor back in Vegas wouldn’t pay up because of our boys wearing the IWW vests. Who knows? Who cares?”
He stood up and continued to scan the map, using his finger to trace the route north-east between Las Vegas and Cedar City.
“Another town, another ten grand,” he mused. “That’s what we need. There’s not much but desert and mountains between here and Cedar City.”
“What about McPhee?” asked Willard, poking the map with a stubby finger.
“McPhee? That ghost town? It died about the same time as Dodge City. No one’s lived there since Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane.”
Flanagan stubbed out his smouldering cigar on the oak table-top and hurled it at the waste-bin, missing by a foot.
“Not so, boss,” corrected Willard, gingerly picking up the soft, wet stub with his fingertips and dropping it into the bin. “Last year they struck another big seam of silver up at McPhee. It’s no Klondike, but the town’s booming again. It’s all here in the Vegas News. They’ve got over five thousand people up there, half of them in tents. Try them; sure no harm in trying.”
Flanagan pulled on his nose and looked again at the map. “McPhee? Hell, where is it? I can’t even find it on the map.”
Willard looked at the map for a moment. “It’s about here” – he jabbed with his finger – “twenty-five miles off Route 15, just north of Cedar City right on the edge of the Escalante Desert.”
“That means about forty miles extra running for the boys,” sighed Flanagan. Nevertheless he returned to his desk and picked up the telephone.
“Get me the mayor of McPhee, Utah. MC-P-H-E-E. Of course it exists – five thousand people there, biggest mining town in the whole goddam state.” The phone was again rammed down on its rest, after which Flanagan lay back in his chair and lit another Havana.
It was a full ten minutes before the phone rang. Flanagan snatched it up at once.
“Could I please speak to the mayor? Mayor McPhee? This is Charles C. Flanagan here, director of the Trans-America foot-race. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? No?”
Flanagan scowled and switched the phone to his right ear.
“Mayor McPhee, I have this Los Angeles to New York foot-race, the greatest professional running competition in the history of man. Over a thousand runners. We’ll be passing through Cedar City next Thursday . . .”
Flanagan was silent for a moment, then covered the mouthpiece with his hand.
“He’s a Scot for sure. Wants to know how much we’re asking.” He returned to the telephone.
“I suggest fifteen thousand dollars,” he said. “Sir, we have some of the greatest professional athletes in the world; Alexander Cole, Lord Peter Thurleigh . . . We could put your town right back on the map.”
He covered the mouthpiece again. “He’s only offering three grand,” he growled. “Says McPhee’s already on the map. Says he doesn’t give a docken for Lord Peter Thurleigh.”
“A docken – what the Sam Hill is a docken?” asked Willard abstractedly.
“I’m afraid the line’s rather bad, Mr Mayor,” said Flanagan, in his Noel Coward voice, shaking the telephone. “I didn’t quite catch your reply. Just something about a docken. Exactly what is a docken, Mr Mayor?” He covered the telephone again and scowled at Willard.
“Says it’s some sort of goddam weed,” he hissed. Back in the mouthpiece he continued, “No, Mr Mayor. I’m afraid three thousand dollars is completely out of the question. Sir, I don’t think you quite realize that I have national and Olympic champions in my team – indeed, one of my athletes won your own Powderhall sprint championship.”
He stopped abruptly and screened the phone with a cupped left hand.
“That’s got to him,” he said gleefully. He returned to the telephone. “Yes, Hugh McPhail, Powderhall professional champion a few years back.”
He listened again, intently. “Yes, Mayor, ten thousand dollars would be acceptable,” he said. “Payable to me immediately on arrival.”
He listened again for a few moments. “Yes, sir,” he said. “The Trans-America will arrive next Friday evening. My assistant, Mr Willard Clay, will be with you tomorrow afternoon to arrange all the practical details.”
Flanagan listened for several moments more, during which his gleeful expression gradually changed to one of bewilderment. He slowly replaced the telephone, his brow furrowed.
“We’ve got the money?” asked Willard anxiously.
“Of course,” said Flanagan. “No problem there. And he says that the people of the town will take care of most of the runners in their homes. That’ll save us nearly five thousand bucks. But he’s got one condition. He wants us all to compete in something called a Highland Games. Now what in tarnation’s a Highland Games?”
Half an hour later Flanagan was to find out, as Hugh McPhail and Doc Cole joined him at his request in the Trans-America caravan.
“McPhail, you’re Scotch – ” he began.
“Scots, Mr Flanagan,” corrected Hugh quietly. “Scotch is something you drink.”
“Then I’ll start again,” said Flanagan. “Scots. We’ve all been invited to something called a Highland Games, at a town called McPhee about two hundred miles north-east of here. These Games, what sort of meet are they?”
“It’s a sports gathering,” said Hugh. “Folks come in from all around to run, jump, throw and wrestle. There’d be dancing and piping competitions too.”
“A sort of glorified track and field meet?” asked Flanagan.
“I suppose that’s what you’d call it here in America,” said Hugh. “But it’s a wee bit more than that. It’s a big social occasion, a chance for people to get together for a crack and a dram.”
“A crack and a dram?” said Willard, eyebrows raised.
Hugh grinned. “To talk and have a drink together.”
“So it’ll be like a day’s holiday for our boys,” said Flanagan, smiling. “What do you think, Doc?”
Doc leant forward in his chair. “My paw took me to my first Highland Games back in I890 in New York. They called them the Caledonian Games then back East. They were real big money meets – most of the throws and jumps were won by the Scots and Irish, with us Yankees left to pick up what we could in the dashes and distance races. They were big business in those days – twenty or thirty thousand used to pay a buck a time to watch.”
“Did you ever run in them?” asked Willard.
“And lose my amateur status? Hell, no.” Doc leaned back in his armchair. “But when I turned pro in 1908 I ran in some and picked up a few bucks. But they were going downhill fast by then – the big Scots immigration was over and the sons of the first immigrants were running amateur at college by that time. No, I guess you can say that the Scotch Games” – he winked at Hugh – “that’s another name we had for them back East – they were on the blink by the War. By 1920 it was all over.”
“So what are we getting into there up at McPhee?” asked Flanagan, pointing at the map. “The Ghost Town Games?”
“I guess you can call the McPhee Games a reminder of times past,” said Doc. “Hell, folk out in country districts never gave a hoot about amateur or professional – they just wanted to have themselves a good time. Those Scots miners up at McPhee don’t give a goddam about the Olympics – they’ve probably never heard of Baron de Coubertin.”
Flanagan laughed, as Doc continued.
“In the old days, out in the Boondocks, they used to call the Highland Games ‘picnic’ games. So I guess that’s what we’ll find when we get to McPhee.”
Two days later, on Willard Clay’s return from McPhee, Flanagan assembled his Trans-Americans in the refreshment tent and informed them of his intention to take them to the town.
Dasriaux was the first to get to his feet.
“Mr Flanagan,” he said. “We do not have to compete in these – these ’ighland Games?”
“No,” answered Flanagan. “You don’t have to, but it’s compulsory.”
There was derisive laughter and Flanagan smiled.
“Seriously, gentlemen, I want you to think of the McPhee Games as a rest day. I want everyone to go along to McPhee next Saturday and have themselves a real good time.”
“But these are athletic competitions,” persisted Dasriaux.
“Handicap competitions,” corrected Flanagan.
“And who decides these handicaps?” shouted Eskola, from the back of the tent.
Flanagan looked uneasily at Willard, who shrugged. “A good point,” he said. “That’s something I’ve got to negotiate with their mayor. But have no fear, I’ll make sure that all you guys get a fair shake.”
“Are there money prizes?” asked Dasriaux.
Flanagan chuckled, then picked up a sheet of paper from the table beside him.
“Yes,” he said. “And some real fancy pickings, too. Just listen to this. Three hundred bucks first prize for the handicap sprint, two hundred for the three miles, and all the other races a hundred bucks each.”
There was an immediate buzz of discussion among the Trans-Americans. This was good money in hard times.
Flanagan held up his hand for silence. “And don’t forget there’s big money right down to fourth place,” he said. “But there’s more. Shot, hammer, weight for height, caber, all three hundred dollars apiece. There’s even a hundred bucks for a goddam sack-race!”
There was laughter and a mood of anticipation as Flanagan’s sales pitch gathered momentum. “High jump; long jump; hop, step and jump; pole vault; hitch-and-kick;” he raised his eyebrows and looked at Willard. “Anyone here know what’s a hitch-and-kick?” he shouted. No one answered. “Well, what- ever it is, they’re giving two hundred bucks first prize for it and for all the other jumps.”
Flanagan handed Willard the programme of events. He then turned to his Trans-Americans and signalled for quiet.
“Boys,” he shouted. “It’s pay day. Pay day! Hell, what are you going to be up against at McPhee? Guys who spend twelve hours a day grubbing about in the hills like goddam gophers. McPhail here tells me some of ’em even wear skirts! If you guys can’t come away next Saturday with a couple of thousand bucks then I’m Daniel Boone.”
There were whistles and applause.
The tall Texan, Kane, stood up.
“One thing, Mr Flanagan,” he drawled. “You got anything on that there schedule for our Miss Sheridan here?”
Willard Clay pored through the list of events and shook his head.
“You ever done any highland dancing, Miss Sheridan?” he asked.
Kate, squatting in the front row, shook her head. Kane looked down at her. “
“No sweat, honey,” he said. “You’ve still got a whole goddam week to learn.”
Kate smiled as the Trans-Americans hooted and laughed around her.
“Okay,” said Flanagan, as the laughter died down. “So here’s our programme. We’ve got about two hundred miles to McPhee, which we’ll take in four easy stages. We arrive there on Friday night and put up with the people there overnight. The Games start at nine sharp on Saturday morning. The morning’s mostly peewee sports and novelty events. The main events are the real big money, and they’re in the afternoon with a finish at around six o’clock. Then we clean up and we have a – ” he looked down at the sheet in front of him – “damned if I can work this out . . . a KEELID.”
“Ceilidh,” shouted Hugh from the front row.
“Thanks,” said Flanagan. “From what I can gather, it’s a sort of hoot n’ anny, clambake kind of affair. You know, singing and dancing and hollering. We stay the night at McPhee, then it’s fifty miles next day to Sevier, towards Route 70, east of Richfield, Utah. Any questions?”
There was silence; the Trans-Americans had decided that a day at McPhee would suit them very nicely.
“Fine,” said Flanagan. “Now, I’d like to get some idea of the number of entries we’re going to get for the various events.” He retrieved the programme from Willard and peered at it.
“First the three dashes, hundred yards, two-twenty and quarter-mile.”
About fifty runners, including Hugh McPhail, raised their hands.
“What about the half-mile and the mile?” Flanagan asked. Over two hundred, including Thurleigh and Morgan, put up their hands. These middle-distance events were much closer to the running talents of the Trans-Americans.
“Let’s see it for the three miles and six miles,” shouted Flanagan.
Over two hundred and fifty runners now raised their hands, including Doc, Bouin, Dasriaux and Martinez. Willard whispered to Flanagan that the German team were standing still and silent beside their manager, Moltke. They had as yet entered for none of the events. Flanagan shrugged and pressed on.
“Now – the jumps,” he shouted. Six hands went up.
“C’mon fellas, have a heart,” pleaded Flanagan. “It’s only a picnic games. So let’s see it real big for the jumps.” Three more hands were raised. Flanagan shook his head wearily in resignation. “Have it your way,” he said. “Now we come to the big money, the throws. Three hundred smackers for first, two hundred for second, one hundred for third. It’s taking candy from a baby.”
No one moved.
Flanagan spread out his hands in mock disgust. “You mean to say that you guys are passing up over a thousand bucks? There’s people where I come from who’d throw their own grandmothers for that kind of dough.”
He looked down at Morgan in the front row.
“What about you, Morgan?” he begged. “You look a well set-up young fella.”
Morgan stood, shaking his head.
“Flanagan, I once saw a Scots picnic games up in the mountains in Pennsylvania. I couldn’t pick up one of those weights, let alone throw them.” He shook his head again and sat down.
The stringy Texan, Kane, in the same row, stood up again. “C’mon Mike,” he shouted, looking down at Morgan. “You enter and so will I.” There were shouts and grunts of agreement. Kate flashed a glance sideways at Morgan, who grinned sheepishly, and got to his feet.
“All right,” he said. “Put me down for a couple of throws . . . But on one condition.”
“Yes?” said Flanagan.
“That you enter for a throw, Mr Flanagan,” replied Morgan. There was an immediate roar of approval and many of the Trans-Americans rose to their feet shouting and clapping. It was the first time that any of them had seen Flanagan blush.
He motioned for silence.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “So you got a deal.” He turned to Willard and winked.
He turned back to face his athletes and flexed his lean right bicep.
“So exactly what throw have you got in mind, boys?”
Many of the events advanced by the Trans-Americans were not in the programme, nor had they ever featured in any Highland Games schedule – events such as catching the javelin or heading the shot. Flanagan had to shout several times for silence.
“Easy, boys. Remember there’s a lady present,” he shouted. “Let’s ask the Scotsman.” He turned his head towards Hugh. “So, what do you suggest, Mr McPhail?”
Hugh stood up and looked around him solemnly. “The caber, Mr Flanagan,” he said. “I think the caber.”
Flanagan pointed dramatically to the east. “Boys,” he said, “in four days, we hit McPhee. We’re going to give ’em the goddamest Highland Games they ever did see.”
The two hundred miles into the town were uneventful. Doc’s narrow lead over Muller was quickly whittled down by the young German and, by the time they reached the town’s outskirts, Muller was only just behind Doc, closely followed by Morgan, Thurleigh, Martinez and McPhail, with Bouin, Eskola and Dasriaux also in contention. Muller was still running at a remarkable average of over six miles an hour, and few runners now attempted to stay with him as they had in the early stages of the race.
The Trans-Americans entered McPhee on the Friday evening at seven o’clock, the race-finish having been set half a mile out of town. The town looked just as it had forty years before, its single, dirt street bustling with miners, mules, wagons and handcarts. To Hugh it was like something out of a Western movie, complete with saloon, barber shop and sheriff ’s office. Indeed, he half-expected William S. Hart or Tom Mix to come galloping up the street in a ten-gallon hat astride a white horse. The town was made almost entirely of wood, and above its one main street glowered the brown, pock-marked mountain of silver which was now being reworked. A new seam had been opened on the eastern side of the mountain, and it was here that most of the prospectors had gathered, but others later on the scene were reworking old mines, burrowing even deeper into holes made over forty years before by men long dead. Outside the town a camp city had been built to accommodate the overflow, and to this population had been added visitors, sleeping in cars or tents, who had come to town because of the coming Games.
Flanagan’s runners settled in for the night with the good people of McPhee. Mayor McPhee, son of the town’s founder, and with whom Flanagan was billeted, had never left the town when the original seam had petered out in 1902. Together with his father and a dozen other Scots, he had made a bare living scraping silver from thin seams for almost thirty years and only the discovery of bauxite in 1928 had enabled him to secure sufficient finance to drill again for silver. This had resulted early in I930 in the discovery of a rich fresh seam, and prospectors had once again rushed to the town. The place was now completely owned by McPhee and his durable Scots friends, and the cost of land and water to prospectors was high. Every store was owned by McPhee and his cronies; every truck-load of goods brought to town had to pay toll to them.
Mayor McPhee had, of course, known of the Trans-America and had been aware that it was to pass McPhee forty miles away on the road east between Cedar City and Beaver. Thus, though Flanagan’s willingness to change route had come as a surprise to him, he was fully aware of the potential of the re-routing of the Trans-America to McPhee. Another five thousand cars into town at $3 per car came to $15,000. Ten thousand extra spectators at $1 a man came to $10,000, and the refreshment tent was liable to be about another $10,000 the richer, to say nothing of the town’s stores. And then there was Flanagan’s circus. Nothing like Madame La Zonga and Fritz the talking mule had been seen in McPhee since the turn of the century. At $10,000 the Trans-America was dirt cheap; and McPhee was generous with the measure of whiskey he poured into Flanagan’s glass as he entertained him in his living room.
“Thanks, Mr Mayor,” said Flanagan, as he looked round the lushly-furnished room. “First time I’ve ever set eyes on tartan curtains.”
“McPhee tartan,” said the little mayor proudly.
“How many years have you had these Games?” asked Flanagan.
“1888 to 1903,” said McPhee. “I was only a bit of a lad in 1888 – I won the boys’ race then. We had three thousand people here then, nearly all from the auld country. Aye, some of the best athletes used to come here, some all the way from Scotland. Y’see, we always gave big prize money.” He sipped his own whiskey slowly. “I remember one year, we had a big Irishman called McGrath. 1898 I think it was. He even brought his own hammer, with a shaft made of vines.”
“Vines?” said Flanagan.
“Yes,” said McPhee. “Wrapped round and round like a rope. Ver-ry strong. We measured it to see how long it was, but it was only four foot six, regulation size. My father, God bless him, was chief judge, and he checked it himself. Well, first throw McGrath puts it out to a hundred and thirty feet, ten feet beyond the Games record. That meant a bonus of a hundred dollars for the record. But my dad wasn’t happy.”
“Why not?”
“Well, y’see, when McGrath swung the hammer the vines stretched, and the longer the hammer shaft the further it’d go. So my dad goes up to this big Irish whale standing up his whole five foot three, and says, ‘Mr McGrath, I think that hammer shaft looks about six feet long when you start swinging it.’ And you know what that big Irishman said?”
“No,” said Flanagan, smiling in anticipation.
“He said, ‘Well, Mr McPhee, I suggest you measure it while I’m a-swinging it’.” The little Scot exploded with mirth, and the tears flowed from his eyes. He reached to the bottle at his side. “Here, Flanagan, have another dram,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr Mayor,” said Flanagan, grinning. Then his face became serious. “But let’s get down to business. My assistant has given you our entries?”
“Yes,” said McPhee. “And a real fine turn-out you’ve given us.”
“The only problem my runners envisage is the handicaps,” said Flanagan. “You see, the handicapper surely has to know each runner’s form before he can set fair handicaps. After all, there’s a lot of money at stake here.”
“True, true,” said McPhee, nodding.
“For instance, I’ve looked at the hundred yards handicap,” said Flanagan. “There’s a man there with a start of fifty yards. All he has to do to win is to fall forward.”
The mayor’s face became stern. “Mr Flanagan, you’re talking about my father.”
“Oh,” said Flanagan, reddening. “And could I ask who is handicapping the running events?”
“Here’s the programme,” said McPhee, handing a sheaf of papers to Flanagan.
Flanagan checked the front page of the Games programme. “It says here that the handicapper is a Mr McPhee,” he said.
“That’s me,” said the mayor.
Elsewhere in McPhee things were going more smoothly for the Trans-Americans. At Mrs McDonald’s, Hugh McPhail was tucking into his first dish of oatcakes in over a month, while Juan Martinez was making his first acquaintance with black pudding. Two blocks away with the McLeods, Peter Thurleigh and Mike Morgan were making an uncertain assault upon a haggis, and at the Moncrieffs, Kate Sheridan was being taken through the rudiments of Highland dancing, watched by a bemused Dixie.
The German team had camped outside the town, aloof from the social life of McPhee, while the All-Americans had based themselves in the Caledonian Hotel. Also in the Caledonian were most of the press corps, including Liebnitz, who was busy absorbing the history of the McPhee Games from Mayor McPhee’s father, a tiny seventy-five-year-old sprinter. It was well past midnight before the last lights went out in McPhee.
At 9 a.m. precisely the Games commenced. The bagpipes began their solemn drone, and on the dancing platform tiny girl dancers pranced three at a time to endless music. Their toes picked out precise and delicate patterns, their medals jingling on their velvet tunics as they competed before impassive, pipe-smoking judges. Children of all ages sprinted down and round the rough grass track in an endless series of handicap races and novelty events, while on the infield men slithered up and down greasy poles or, straddling logs, swiped fiercely at each other with feather pillows. Others, strapped together at the ankles, half-limped, half-ran in grotesque three-legged races or crawled and stumbled over benches and hoops.
Flanagan had never seen anything quite like it. Already, by 9.30 a.m., there were at least five thousand spectators in the natural bowl below the town, as cars continued to pour from Colorado and Utah into the car park adjacent to the area. On the bumpy desert crab-grass surface a rough running track had been pegged out, five laps to the mile, whilst on the infield a six-lane sprint track, each lane separated by strings, had been created. In the centre of the home stretch was the dancing platform. On the infield were tree trunks, jumping stands, hammers and ring-weights of all shapes, even bamboo vaulting poles. In the centre of the field was a tiny tent, which Flanagan rightly assumed was for the officials. What he did not know was that this tent was also the exact alcoholic centre of gravity of the McPhee Games.
As the Games progressed into the heat of the Utah day, so more and more they took on a dreamlike quality. At the centre of that dream was Games chieftain Mayor McPhee, bestriding the field like a kilted, bandy-legged colossus. He seemed everywhere, egging on vanquished three-legged competitors, laughing helplessly at pillow-fighters or growling unheeded advice to wrestlers locked in solemn conflict.
And pervading all was the skirl of the pipes. Even at lunch, the morning’s sport over and the Games at a pause, Flanagan imagined he could still hear their mournful wail singing in his ears.
“I reckon yer lads have brought us in a few hundred extra spectators,” said McPhee, contentedly watching the incoming cars continue to grind up the dusty hill below, as he and Flanagan stood outside the refreshment tent.
“A few thousand, more likely,” growled Flanagan. “Just tell me, when did you last have a crowd like this?”
“1903,” replied McPhee. “We haven’t had the Games since then.”
A few moments later the little Scotsman went to the microphone in the centre of the games field. “I would like formally to declare,” he said, “the 1931 McPhee Games open.” There was applause from the crowds massed on the slopes surrounding the arena. “We have great pleasure welcoming to our fair city Mr Flanagan’s famous Trans-America foot-racers, brought here by our committee at great expense “ – he glanced sidelong at Flanagan – “to our historic Games.” McPhee paused. “Among others, we welcome Doctor Alexander Cole . . . a leading member of the British aristocracy, Lord Peter Thurleigh . . . and finally, from Glasgow, Powderhall professional sprint champion – Hugh McPhail.” The crowd, composed mainly of Americans, had no idea what or where Glasgow or Powderhall were, but applauded dutifully.
Hugh McPhail managed to give the elder McPhee, a skeletal athlete clad in long black Victorian running shorts, a fifty-yard start and a beating in the hundred yards handicap. Indeed, old McPhee, hard of hearing, had only just got up into the “set” position when McPhail passed him, on his way to a narrow victory over the other four finalists.
“Winner, hundred yards, world’s professional champion, Hugh McPhail, Glasgow, Scotland,” intoned the Chieftain, to a roar of applause.
Mike Morgan was not so fortunate. In the throws, he faced miners with years of hard muscular work in their bodies and events of which he had never dreamt, let alone experienced. The shafted hammer weighed sixteen pounds and was a round iron ball, into which a whippy bamboo shaft had been inserted. The throw was made from a standing position, from behind a wooden stop-board, and Morgan almost strangled himself in his preliminary swings before hurling the hammer sixty feet, a full forty feet behind the leaders. “We go for distance here at McPhee, laddie, not depth,” growled McPhee as he passed Morgan.
Throwing the fifty-six-pound ring-weight for height proved to be even more of a nightmare. Five hundred miles of running had boiled Morgan from a chunky one hundred and seventy pounds down to a lean one hundred and fifty pounds, and in an event where muscle mass was essential he was at a great disadvantage. Indeed, he could hardly lift the weight from the ground, let alone toss it high over a crossbar set nine feet above him. He had smashed three crossbars in practice before McPhee, shaking his head, drew him aside. “Laddie, you know you’re costing us a fortune in crossbars,” he said. “Here,” he added, drawing a hip flask from his sporran, “have a dram.”
Doc Cole, in contrast, was in his element and set to make the three-mile handicap the opportunity to sell his Chickamauga Indian remedy, which he had laboured hard to prepare till three that morning with the Chinaman, Ni Chi Chin. This time, because of the heat, Doc decided to use the remedy as a drink rather than a liniment and modified the formula accordingly. He therefore made great play of swallowing the mixture before the race, surrounded by a wondering crowd, to whom he resolutely refused to sell a single bottle.
He was not worried about the miners, but he was concerned about experienced runners like Dasriaux, Bouin, Eskola and Martinez, all of whom had already shown a fair turn of speed. Luckily, all four had been given a start of only forty yards on him, with the miners receiving starts of up to a quarter of a mile. In the first mile, covered in five and a half minutes, Doc, billed by McPhee as the “Olympic marathon champion”, duly picked up the four closest Trans-Americans, twenty miners and almost all of the other Trans-Americans.
Half a mile later there were only ten plodding miners, spread over a hundred and fifty yards in front of him, and he was gaining on them with every stride. He eased off, playing out the drama to the end. At the end of two miles with a mile to go, he was only forty yards from the leader and lay in second position, with Bouin and Martinez forty yards behind. Suddenly Doc gave a desperate groan and fell to the ground. Morgan, suitably primed beforehand, rushed to his side with a bottle of Chickamauga. Doc crawled along the track to Morgan as Bouin and Martinez passed him, groped desperately for the bottle and gulped down its contents. In a moment he was on his feet, sprinting. The massive crowd roared, for Doc was now fifth, over one hundred and fifty yards behind the leaders.
The old man played the situation beautifully. Slowly, painfully, he pulled in the leaders, groaning on every stride, passing man after man. Men shouted him on, women begged him to stop. The arena was in a turmoil. With only a lap to go, Doc was a full ten yards behind the two leaders, Martinez and Bouin, and looking bad. “Cole – Cole – Cole!” screamed the crowd. Somehow Doc dragged himself to just a yard behind the leaders with a furlong to go. To the crowd it was clear that Doc was finished, for he was now making no further impression on the runners ahead of him. But with a hundred yards to the finish Doc sprinted forward again, and snapped the tape five yards ahead of Martinez, with Bouin third.
Outside the athletes’ tent Morgan was besieged by miners, desperate to relieve themselves of two dollars for the privilege of purchasing Chickamauga’s magic draught. Within half an hour he had sold out.
Things were going well for the Trans-Americans. In fact, Peter Thurleigh, starting from scratch in the mile and giving away starts of up to two hundred yards, caught the front markers after three-quarters of a mile, only to fight a battle with Mike Morgan, to whom he had given a start of twenty yards, over the final lap. The twenty thousand crowd roared the two leg-weary Trans-Americans round the last lap, with Thurleigh winning at the tape by less than a yard. At the afternoon interval, Kate Sheridan, benefiting from her previous evening’s coaching at Highland dancing, gave a burlesque display of the art, entitled “Caledonian Capers”, which went down well with her American audience, if not with Scottish Highland Games purists. The Trans-Americans were less happy with the jumps, where McPhee had declined to offer normal sand pits, and they gained only a comprehensive range of bruises. The hitch-and-kick event, involving kicking a suspended sheep’s bladder with one’s jumping foot, almost resulted in a victory for the lanky Kane. The Texan, alas, though touching the bladder with his foot, forgot that the same foot had to touch the ground first, landed on his backside, and had to be taken by stretcher to the refreshment tent.
The final event of the meeting was the caber. For this event McPhee had found Flanagan a Royal Stewart kilt. But it had obviously been intended for a much larger man, and Flanagan was forced to wrap it round his waist twice. Beneath it his white, skinny legs hung like vines from a garden wall. The entrepreneur emerged from the darkness of the dressing tent blinking in the bright sunshine and was led to the massive log and to the other competitors, seated elbows on knees on a bench beside the caber.
The caber itself weighed about a hundred and twenty pounds and was about sixteen feet long. The two largest competitors, the Scots McCluskey and Anderson, stood over it, looking down at the log.
“Too big,” growled McCluskey, a massive chunky man, hands on hips.
“Right, Angus. Too big for the length,” said his compatriot.
Flanagan, mystified, was inclined to agree.
McCluskey lifted the caber by its thick end and let it drop with a thud to the ground.
“Never get this beast over to twelve o’clock. Not in a million years.”
“Right, Angus. Absolutely impossible,” agreed Anderson, standing, massive arms folded.
McPhee was summoned to the spot.
“What’s the problem, lads?” he asked genially.
The two Scotsmen explained.
“What d’ye mean, too big?” said McPhee, indignantly. “Back in Scotland, they throw cabers twice this size.”
“Perhaps, but not here,” replied McCluskey.
“And exactly what do you expect me to do?” asked McPhee, still straining to be polite.
“Only one thing we can do,” said Anderson, looking around the other throwers. “Saw a lump off.”
McPhee almost danced with impotent rage.
“You know your problem?” he hissed, looking up at McCluskey.
“No,” growled the giant, arms folded.
“You’re a damn weakling!” said McPhee, stamping off towards the judges’ tent for further sustenance.
Twenty minutes later, after a sizeable chunk had been sawn from the offending caber, the competition began. There were twelve competitors and Flanagan, sitting on a bench with the others in the middle of the sun-baked arena, was not surprised to see that Anderson and McCluskey, far from being weaklings, looked like the only really proficient caber-tossers there. The other competitors were lean miners or local farm-boys and looked just as apprehensive as Flanagan. McCluskey, the first to throw, easily hoisted the caber to his left shoulder, balanced it there for a moment, then commenced on his run, followed from behind by the chief judge. Then McCluskey stopped suddenly, both feet in line, and drove down hard with legs and back as the caber tilted forward, finishing with a high flourish with both hands as the caber finally left his grasp.
It was not a perfect “twelve o’clock” throw, the caber falling slightly to the left at “five to twelve”, but McClusky strutted back to the bench, evidently satisfied. His fellow Scot, Anderson, achieved a similar result, his caber falling to the right, at five past twelve, so the two Scots shared the lead.
Flanagan had difficulty in keeping his face straight as he watched the other competitors. Some did not know which end of the caber to lift and had to be directed to the thin end. Even then, their problems had only begun, as they had no idea how to set the caber up on to their shoulders. When they did manage to lift the caber to the correct throwing position, having been allowed help from other competitors, they either allowed it to fall back behind them, or performed a desperate bandy-legged dance before dropping the caber and leaving it to its own devices. The arena was a sea of laughter and little McPhee scowled from the gloom of the judges’ tent as he watched.
Flanagan’s first throw maintained the carnival spirit. With help, he got the caber into the throwing position on his first attempt but found that the bark of the tree trunk grated on his left collar-bone and he felt his knees buckle under the caber’s weight. By the time he had balanced himself and it, his energies had been totally exhausted, and all he could do was to drop the caber and run, to hoots of derision from the crowd.
The second round of the competition saw perfect twelve o’clock throws from Anderson and McCluskey, but Flanagan’s second round attempt was as disastrous as his first, and he only narrowly avoided decapitating the following caber judge. He returned to the bench flushed and sullen, his blood slowly coming to the boil.
“Flanagan, last throw!” shouted the recorder, a few moments later. Centuries of Irish bile and resentment were pouring through Flanagan’s thin frame. This time he needed no help to raise the caber to the throwing position, and McCluskey and Anderson looked at each other in surprise. He moved off quickly, suddenly possessed by a surge of strength. The caber threatened to fall sideways. As he tried to maintain balance he started to zig-zag, and in front of him other competitors began to move hurriedly to one side. First, Flanagan staggered towards the dancing platform: the dancers leapt off in alarm. Then he changed direction and teetered drunkenly towards the wrestlers who, glancing up, hurriedly broke their holds and fled for safety.
Flanagan felt himself weaken. He was totally out of control and now thought only of survival. All pride gone, he summoned one last desperate burst of energy and launched the hated caber. It was the third twelve o’clock toss of the day – and went straight through the side of the judges’ tent, stripping it of its canvas to reveal Chieftain McPhee standing alone drinking whiskey straight from the bottle.
The Highland Games of Scotland were first called “gatherings” because they were occasions when country people, who had through the winter lived remote from each other, came together in spring or summer for a day of sport and social communion. When the gatherings were over there were no real losers, and thus it was at the conclusion of the 1931 McPhee Games held far from Scotland in a dry, dusty bowl north of Cedar City, Utah.
There were over three thousand people in the vast sweaty refreshment tents. Most of them were not Scots, and yet the main tent was ablaze with tartan and filled with piping and Scots songs. Somehow everyone within a hundred miles of McPhee had found in his family some trace of Scots ancestry, and from lofts and cupboards the ancient garb of Gaul had been extracted.
“I’ve got to give credit where credit is due,” said Mayor McPhee, beckoning the barman to him. “Ye brought some bonny lads with ye, Flanagan. That Doc Cole’s a wonder – he sold me ten bottles of his remedy.”
“Thanks, Mr Mayor,” said Flanagan. “Yes, I think my boys did do themselves proud. Now, about the ten thousand dollars we agreed on the telephone . . .”
“Plenty of time for business,” said McPhee. “Here, just you have a half and a half.”
Flanagan was nonplussed.
“A half and a half, man,” repeated McPhee, pouring out a generous half-tumbler of whiskey and beckoning the barman to pour out Flanagan a half-pint of beer.
McPhee dropped his head back and slipped down his own “half” of whiskey and lifted his half-pint of beer.
“The beer’s the chaser,” he explained, gulping it down. He slapped Flanagan on the back. “Get it down ye, man. It’s the real Mackay, all the way from Scotland. None of yer bootleg rubbish.”
Flanagan did as he was bid.
“Set them up again, Angus,” said McPhee. McCluskey the caber-tosser was now acting as barman, his customary role in the town. “Mr Flanagan here’s just warming up.”
“About our fee . . .” started Flanagan.
“Fee?” snorted McPhee. “Man, this is no time to talk of money. Get that whiskey down!”
On a wooden platform in the centre of the tent a ceilidh was beginning, and a young woman was singing a Gaelic song. In one corner the Finns, Eskola and Maki, were being introduced to the rudiments of sword dancing. In another Bouin and Dasriaux were making their first tentative attempts to master the bagpipes. At the bar Carl Liebnitz was deep in discussion with a weary Peter Thurleigh, while behind them agent Ernest Bullard was recovering some of the liquid lost during the afternoon. Bullard had finally surrendered his amateur status at the age of thirty-eight, though he felt no regret at the loss. He had run in the half-mile handicap, receiving a twenty-eight-yard start from Peter Thurleigh. Though he had not competed for fifteen years Bullard was still in good condition, and had clocked just over two minutes five seconds in finishing second to the Texan, Kane, picking up seventy-five dollars in the process.
A few yards away, Flanagan’s world was becoming increasingly blurred, as McPhee continued to ply him with “half and halves”. He had already consumed six, and his legs had the rubbery quality which the Trans-Americans, for different reasons, knew only too well.
He began to realize that McPhee was dragging him towards the centre of the crowded tent.
“Look,” said Hugh, pointing. “It looks as though Flanagan’s going to make a speech.”
And so it appeared. Even the German team, who had for most of the evening stayed aloof from the surrounding revelry, looked up as McPhee dragged Flanagan towards the platform in the centre of the tent.
“My lords, ladies and gentlemen,” said the little Scot, pulling the microphone down. “This has truly been a great day for McPhee, a great day of manly sport and endeavour. Your Games committee has been delighted by the attendance of twenty-one thousand three hundred and twenty spectators” – there was cheering and applause – “and the Games’ takings which must exceed forty thousand dollars.
“It has indeed been an honour to welcome Mr Flanagan’s famous Trans-Americans, men who have become household names in the last few weeks. If I may mention one athlete in particular it must be our own Powderhall champion, Hugh McPhail, a true son of old Gaul, who won the handicap sprint, against great odds. Less successful, but more spectacular, was Mr Flanagan’s performance in the caber.”
There were cheers and laughter.
“The Trans-Americans will, alas, be on their way east tomorrow, but I think that everyone here will agree that each one of them will be welcome back here again at any time.”
There were cheers, applause, shouts of assent.
“I therefore think it appropriate,” he continued, “that at this stage in the proceedings Mr Flanagan himself should say a few words.”
Flanagan gathered himself, loosened his tie and bent down to the microphone.
“On behalf of the Trans-America foot-race,” he began, “I thank the people of McPhee for their truly generous hospitality. When I was asked last week to have my men compete at your Games I had little idea of what I was getting them into. I now realize that what you have here in McPhee is a sports festival unpolluted by modern times: a small part of America that is forever Scotland.”
His head swam.
“Stop blethering, Flanagan, and give us a song,” came a voice from deep in the throng.
“A song, yes, a song.” Flanagan fumbled in the mists of his mind. Even in his stupor he could think of songs, but none suitable for a mixed audience. “A song,” he said again. Suddenly it came to him.
“I have great pleasure in inviting to the microphone our star performer of today, our Powderhall champion, Hugh McPhail, to sing a traditional Scottish ballad,” he blurted.
Hugh’s name was immediately taken up and, before he knew what was happening, the day’s hero was pushed and nudged forward towards the microphone.
He stood on the platform and the tent gradually became silent. Hugh flushed. They were waiting for him. He cleared his throat. Only one song seemed appropriate.
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour:
See the front o’ battle lour!
See approach proud Edward’s power –
Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
The tent was still, not even the clink of a glass. Hugh surged on through the last verse, his voice strengthening as he was joined by Scots all over the tent.
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow,
Let us do or die!
When Hugh had ended the tent erupted with Scots, would-be Scots, and plain old Americans. “Lovely voice, lovely voice,” said McPhee, drawing Flanagan with him to the crowded bar. “Same again, Angus,” said the mayor to Flanagan’s massive tormentor of the afternoon. Flanagan made to refuse, but McPhee ignored him.
“Flanagan,” he said, eyeing him up and down, “I reckon you for a gambling man. Am I right?”
The mayor gulped down a massive measure of whiskey and pushed his empty glass towards Angus with a nod. Flanagan did not reply and McPhee went on. “I see you as a gentleman willing to take a chance. Know what I mean?” McPhee opened his sporran and withdrew a thick wad of money.
“Here’s your ten thousand dollars,” he said, placing the bundle on the wet surface of the bar. “It’s yours. You’ve earned it.”
Flanagan, his cash-reflex still intact, put his hand on the money, but McPhee placed his own hand on top of Flanagan’s.
“So how do you fancy a gamble?” he said. “A wee flutter? Double or quits?”
Willard Clay had now joined Flanagan at the bar and looked anxiously at his employer. “Boss,” he hissed, pulling at Flanagan’s sleeve.
Flanagan shrugged him off. “Double or quits?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean a little side bet. Nothing for you if you lose, twenty thousand dollars in your hand if you win.”
“A side bet?” said Flanagan. “What the hell do we bet on? The Games are over.”
“The Games are over when I say so,” said McPhee firmly.
“So what d’ye say?”
“What’s the deal?” said Flanagan.
“Tug-o’-war,” said McPhee.
“Tug-o’-war?” exploded Flanagan. “My boys are runners, not goddam weight-lifters.”
“Tug-o’-war,” repeated the mayor patiently. “Best of three pulls. Against a team of lassies.”
“Lassies?” said Flanagan.
“Gurlls, ladies,” explained McPhee. “A team of young lassies from Powder Valley against your strapping lads.”
Flanagan’s mind, though blurred, sensed danger, though he knew not why. He tried to remove his money from the bar, but the mayor kept his hand firmly on top of his.
“Double or quits,” he repeated. “And, win or lose, we’ll forget about payment for the damage you did to the judges’ tent. So what d’ye say?”
“Boss, can I have a word with you?” interrupted Willard.
“Angus,” said McPhee, sensing danger. “Give Mr Clay here a drink, will you?” The big barman was immediately with Willard, sliding a glass along the bar towards him.
“Double or quits, you say?” said Flanagan slowly.
“That’s the bet,” said McPhee. “The best of three straight pulls wins.”
“When?” said Flanagan.
“Now,” said McPhee, looking out into the gloom outside the tent. “We’ll get some cars to put on their headlights so that we get some light.” For the first time he took his hand from on top of Flanagan’s and held it out towards Flanagan.
“Well?”
Flanagan hesitated for a moment, then clasped the mayor’s hand. “You got yourself a deal,” he said.
Willard groaned.
McPhee made his way quickly to the platform in the middle of the tent, interrupting the Gaelic chant of an elderly Scot.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed. “Here is a special announcement. The committee is pleased to announce a final challenge competition. Mr Flanagan’s Trans-America team have decided to challenge the ladies of Powder Valley to a three-pull tug-of-war competition.”
There was uproar and McPhee bellowed for silence.
“The competition will take place in half an hour, directly outside the refreshment tent. I would ask that all car-owners willing to use their headlights to provide light for the competition report to me immediately. Let me repeat, the competition will commence in half an hour.” The tent emptied, and within a matter of minutes at least twenty had made a book on the competition. But Flanagan was surprised at the odds.
“Five to one against my boys,” he gasped. “Against broads?”
“You haven’t seen these broads, boss,” said Willard. “They really are broad.” Willard was right. He had seen the ladies of Powder Valley demolish every male team previously that morning. The “ladies” were strapping frontiers-women of whom Flanagan had had no experience. Indeed, their anchor, Martha, was not so much a person as a place. Martha soon assembled her Amazons in a corner of the tent to prepare for battle.
Flanagan’s head began to clear. He had been taken, no doubt of it. “Get me Doc and Morgan,” he croaked to Willard. “We’ve got to work something out.”
Willard duly made his way through the seething crowds and returned with the two men.
Doc was not optimistic. “You’ve been had this time, Flanagan,” he said. “Those broads must average over a hundred and sixty pounds. We’ll do well to get within ten pounds of that.” He shook his head, looking over at the Powder Valley team. “First women I’ve ever seen who make me feel effeminate.”
“But there must be some way,” said Flanagan desperately.
Doc stroked his chin. “There’s always a way,” he said. “But let’s first see what we’ve got. Morgan at anchor, McPhail, Bouin, Thurleigh, Eskola, Casey. These look to be the strongest, heaviest boys around. It’s a nothing team, but sometimes nothing’s the best you’ve got.”
Flanagan nodded to Willard, who went off to tell the Trans-Americans concerned. “I sure hope that our boys haven’t mopped up as much booze as you have, Flanagan,” said Doc. “Or we’re done for.”
“Let’s hope those broads have,” said Morgan, scowling.
The Trans-America team was soon gathered round Doc and Flanagan. They crowded in a tight circle, crouching.
“Two hundred bucks a man if we win,” hissed Flanagan.
“I didn’t hear you clear,” said Doc.
“Three hundred,” said Flanagan.
“Still not hearing you too clear,” said Doc, putting his right hand to his ear.
“I’m a fool to myself,” said Flanagan. “Make it five hundred.”
Doc looked around the circle at his men. There was no dissent.
“You’ve got a deal,” he said. “So let’s get ourselves a game plan.”
Doc talked to the team for five minutes in a low whisper. Then they stood up and Doc turned to Flanagan.
“We’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” he said.
“So what’s your plan?” said Flanagan, his hand on Doc’s left shoulder.
“All we got going for us is endurance and competitiveness,” said Doc. “So we dig in and lay right back on the rope on the first pull and let those ladies pull their hearts out. We stretch it out as long as possible, so even if they win the first pull they’ll be pooped. Then we give ’em no rest between trials and go eyeballs out in the second pull. If we win that we’re still in business.”
“And after that?” said Flanagan.
“Let’s get to that third pull, then I can put on the miracle hat,” said Doc. “And don’t touch another drop of that hooch, Flanagan. You’ll need a clear head in the next half hour.”
He turned to Willard.
“Get us some running spikes,” he said. “That could make all the difference.”
Twenty minutes later all was ready. Fifty cars spread a bright pool in the inky darkness outside the tent. Behind the cars stood a thousand spectators, still betting heavily amongst themselves in the warm, buzzing Utah night. McPhee and Flanagan had agreed that the elder McPhee would act as chief judge, with Liebnitz and Bullard as jury of appeal.
“Are you ready, ladies and gentlemen?” asked old McPhee, tying a knot of red ribbon in the centre of the competition rope and laying the thick hemp carefully on the ground.
“Then pick up the rope!”
Both teams picked up the hemp and dug in, the chunky Powder Valley team in incongruous blouses, tights and black thick-heeled leather boots and the Trans-Americans in vests, shorts and running spikes. Martha and her adversary, Mike Morgan, tied the rope round their waists in the anchor positions and Morgan nodded to Doc. They were ready.
“Take the strain!” shouted McPhee, and waited till the red ribbon was directly above the centre-line. There was silence, with only the whirr of insects to be heard.
“Pull!”
The sturdy ladies of Powder Valley pulled indeed and in seconds the Trans-Americans had given away six inches. But they held and lay back on the rope, setting their heels in firmly. Then, aided by the grip of their spikes, they too pulled and regained the grooves they had first created as a platform for themselves. Again stable, they lay back almost horizontally as the Powder Valley team set and re-set their feet in an attempt to unbalance them. But the Trans-Americans held and used body weight rather than muscle to retain their position. The pull lasted five minutes and the sweat streamed as the gasping ladies gradually pulled the Trans-Americans towards them. Then it was over – the pull had gone to the girls of Powder Valley, who collapsed like stranded whales on the rough scrub-grass.
Doc was quick to seize the advantage. “Pick up that rope,” he hissed. “They’ve had it.”
The rope was soon re-set and this time Flanagan’s Trans-Americans pulled viciously from the first moment. Their gasping opponents, never allowed to regain their balance, slithered and slid on the thin dry grass as Doc screamed his men onwards.
“Pull, goddamit, pull!” he raved. Suddenly it was over. The red ribbon was in Trans-America territory, and the second pull was theirs. It was now even at one-all, and everything rested on the final pull.
McPhee was not slow to realize what had happened, and saw his twenty thousand dollars slipping through his fingers. He took from his sporran a large pocket-watch.
“I call ten minutes’ rest before the final pull,” he shouted above the din. “Only fair,” he said to Flanagan. “After all, they’re only gurlls.”
Flanagan, now almost sober, shook his head. The old mayor had got the better of him. He walked over to the girls’ team and a few moments later he was seen in smiling conversation with the massive Martha. Flanagan nodded to her, returned to the Trans-Americans and stood hands on hips in front of Doc.
“Well,” he said. “What’s the master plan this time?”
“Master plan?” said Doc. “Goddamit, Flanagan, have a look at our boys.” He pointed to the Trans-Americans lying face down on the grass parallel to the rope. “A little prayer might help.” He smiled. “Only one plan now. No more tricks. Just pull on that rope until we drop.”
The rope was set for the final pull and again a hush descended on the crowd. The Powder Valley team had by now recovered completely, and their plump, round faces were set in a look of grim determination.
“Pull!” screamed McPhee.
The pull was by far the longest of the three, and lasted almost ten minutes. It was a pull that ebbed and flowed to the roar of the crowd, with Mayor McPhee now losing all pretense of impartiality, dancing up and down beside the Powder Valley team like a demented leprechaun. But after nine minutes the Trans-Americans were drained. Hugh McPhail could feel the strength ebbing from him and Morgan’s upper body had gone into spasm. Peter Thurleigh’s eyes were glazed and he felt his grip weakening as Bouin, Casey and Eskola started to slide in front of him. Ever so slowly, the pull was slipping from them and every Trans-American knew it. Doc stopped shouting and turned away, not daring to look.
Then there was a thud as Martha, the Powder Valley anchor, slipped to the ground with a dull thump and in an instant her team had lost balance and had started to slide.
The crowd gasped with surprise.
Doc heard the gasps and turned. “Pull!” he bellowed. “Pull, you weaklings!” Dixie and Kate rushed from the crowd and joined him at his side screaming, tears streaming down their faces.
The Trans-Americans, feeling the resistance against them slacken, dug deep and found from somewhere fresh reserves of strength. Bathed in an ocean of roaring sound, their bodies awash with muscular waste, they pulled like men possessed. Nothing or no one could stop them now, as they found new rhythm, new fire, and in less than a minute they had pulled their broken opponents over. They had won!
Trans-Americans poured from behind the parked cars, through the roar of the crowd, to engulf their team, who knelt on bent knees, sobbing with fatigue. Doc looked round at Flanagan and shook his head.
“You got to her, didn’t you?” he asked, nodding over to the prostrate, heaving Martha, who lay on the ground, her great bosom heaving.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Flanagan, adjusting his tie.
“I know your manner of speaking,” growled Doc, leaning forward with Flanagan to pull Martha to her feet. “Just what did you say to her?”
“Nothing much,” said Flanagan, turning away from Martha. “I just made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.”
“Jesus,” said Doc. “What was that?”
“You,” said Flanagan.