Again Varrell took the puck, and with his familiar tricky movement of the wrist started down the ice.
“Look out for Bosworth,” yelled Durand, whom Todd was obstructing at the side-lines. But Varrell’s dull ears served him ill. Bosworth, who was close at the Greaser’s heels, thrust his stick suddenly between Varrell’s rapidly moving legs and threw him with a crash to the ice, right under the feet of Richmond, who was speeding up from another direction. Richmond went down, too, tripping hard against the prostrate form.
The Greasers hissed, the Yankees groaned. John Curtis, be it said to his credit, ordered Bosworth from the ice before the referee could interfere; but the advantage of the “accident,” as Bosworth called it, was on the side of the Yankees. Varrell was helped off the scene, barely able to lift his leg.
The teams went on with six men each. With Varrell the Greasers had lost the mainspring of their attack. Superior weight and superior physical strength began to tell. The puck kept returning to the Greaser defence. Then came a scrimmage before the goal, a quick shoot from the outskirts of the crowd, and the Yanks were exulting over their first score.
“Only four minutes more,” pleaded Dick, skating down the Greaser line. “Hold them that long for Varrell’s sake. We can do it, if we will.”
And the weary six rallied once more. Durand was knocked about like the puck itself, but he stuck gamily to his work, and zigzagged and circled and dodged as before. Sands saved one goal with his hands, another with his feet. Dick met body check with body check, and lifted high and sure. But never before had he listened so anxiously for the sound of the referee’s whistle. When it came, and he knew certainly that the game was won, he flung his stick into the air and led the gathering Greasers in a long, hearty cheer for Varrell, who, lying on the meadow bank bedded in Yank blankets, was watching the result with his heart in his mouth.
“Great work you did this afternoon,” said Tompkins two hours later, popping his head into Melvin’s room. “Any part of you that isn’t black and blue?”
“I didn’t suffer much,” replied Melvin. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked.”
“I hope not,” said Tompkins. “Do you know what battle in Roman history the fray reminded me of?”
Dick shook his head. “I don’t know any history. I passed it off last year.”