“Oh, you just bet! But don't wait. Go on! Go on down! You've got to get this game!”
Thomas glanced at the foot hanging limp, and then at the white but resolute face. Then saying with slow, savage emphasis, “The brute beast! As sure as death I'll do for him,” he skated off to join the forward line.
It was the Front knock-off from goal. There was no plan of attack, but the Twentieth team, looking upon the faces of the master and Thomas, needed no words of command.
The final round was shot, short, sharp, fierce. A long drive from Farquhar Bheg sent the ball far up into the Twentieth territory. It was a bad play, for it gave Craven and Thomas their chance.
“Follow me close, Thomas,” cried the master, meeting the ball and setting off like a whirlwind.
Past the little Reds, through the centers, and into the defense line he flashed, followed hard by Thomas. In vain Hec Ross tried to check, Craven was past him like the wind. There remained only Dan and Jimmie Ben. A few swift strides, and the master was almost within reach of Dan's club. With a touch of the ball to Thomas he charged into his waiting foe, flung him aside as he might a child, and swept on.
“Take the man, Thomas,” he cried, and Thomas, gathering himself up in two short, quick strikes, dashed hard upon Jimmie Ben, and hurled him crashing to the ice.
“Take that, you brute, you!” he said, and followed after Craven.
Only Farquhar Bheg was left.
“Take no chances,” cried Craven again. “Come on!” and both of them sweeping in upon the goal-keeper, lifted him clear through the goal and carried the ball with them.