Thus far, however, Frederick’s participation had only succeeded in burning up his fellow players. Rand Downey, who had to play opposite him on the other wing, had reasons to be the most upset.
“I’d like to ask,” flared Rand, “how’s it come you’ve always picked soft sports to excel in?”
“What do you mean—‘soft’?” Frederick’s expression was one of hurt surprise.
“No physical conflict ... no bumping up against a real opponent ... like in football or baseball or—hockey?”
“Competition of that sort doesn’t interest me,” stated Frederick frankly, a flush creeping into his cheeks.
“You mean,” taunted Rand, bent on driving home his thrust, “that you’d rather not mix it with anybody ... you’re afraid of getting your hair mussed or a punch in the eye or your nose rubbed in the dirt.”
Fellow players glared at their new team member, obviously in support of Rand’s accusation.
“I admit,” answered Frederick, unblinkingly, “such things do not appeal to me.”
The fellow’s absolute candor was amazing. Rand had deliberately set out to antagonize him and here he was, quietly agreeing to everything. Apparently Frederick, who came by his title “the Great” through this air of superiority, could not be fussed nor aroused. He made no pretense of that which he was not and indicated quite plainly that he felt entitled to his views on sport.
“I suppose you know, then,” fired Rand, as a last broadside, “that you play hockey like a lady!”