The eager, hurried whisper, the intense appeal in the white face and dark eyes, made the master hesitate in his emphatic refusal.
“You can't—”
“Oh, don't stop! Don't stop it for me,” cried Hughie, gripping the master's arm. “Help me up and take me back.”
The master swore a fierce oath.
“We'll do it, my boy. You're a trump. Here, Don,” he called aloud, “we'll let Hughie keep goal for a little,” and they ran Hughie back to the goal on one skate.
“You go out, Thomas,” gasped Hughie. “Don't talk. We've only five minutes.”
“They have broken his leg,” said the master, with a sob in his voice.
“Nothing wrong, I hope,” said Dan, skating up.
“No; play the game,” said the master, fiercely. His black eyes were burning with a deep, red glow.
“Is it hurting much?” asked Thomas, lingering about Hughie.