They were. The whistle blew and both sides skated to the centre to receive the customary warning.
"They both seem pretty cool," remarked Mr. Amherst. "No signs of nervousness that I can see."
"Not a particle. Look! who has won the toss? The Conquerors? Hurrah! You must say 'Hurrah!' too, Mr. Hadwell, whenever anything nice happens to the Conquerors. It's no fun unless you choose a team."
"Why is the Conquerors your team?"
"Because—oh, because the captain's father was baptized by my grandfather, I believe. There is some such reason, but, for the moment, I forget just what it is. Any reason will do, you know; the point is that you must have a favourite team and shout whenever it scores and groan with indignation whenever the other team does. Do you see?"
"I see. When am I to begin? and how am I to let the public know what I am groaning about?"
"Oh, the public will know if you groan in the right place—that is, when the other team does well. Oh, look! there goes the puck!"
It dashed across the ice, followed by a mass of skimming, pursuing forms; and, for the next few moments, silence reigned. Then a shout arose, "Off-side!"
"Off-side" it was; and the indignant audience hurled insults impartially at both teams; no one seeming very sure as to which was "off-side," but each assuming that it could not be a member of his favourite team. The Conquerors lost to the Wales this time and the latter passed to one of his team who succeeded in sending the puck flying toward the goal. Intense excitement reigned: would he succeed in getting the puck past the goal-keeper? No: the latter deftly turned it aside; and a roar of mingled delight and disappointment arose which made the American girl start and put her hands to her ears.
"Do they often make such a noise?" she asked, involuntarily.