“Time!” called the umpire. The great game was won.
Then, before the crowd had realized what had happened, and before they could pour in upon the ice, Craven skated back toward Jimmie Ben.
“The game is over,” he said, in a low, fierce tone. “You cowardly blackguard, you weren't afraid to hit a boy, now stand up to a man, if you dare.”
Jimmie Ben was no coward. Dropping his club he came eagerly forward, but no sooner had he got well ready than Craven struck him fair in the face, and before he could fall, caught him with a straight, swift blow on the chin, and lifting him clear off his skates, landed him back on his head and shoulders on the ice, where he lay with his toes quivering.
“Serve him right,” said Hec Ross.
There was no more of it. The Twentieth crowds went wild with joy and rage, for their great game was won, and the news of what had befallen their captain had got round.
“He took his city, though, Mrs. Murray,” said the master, after the great supper in the manse that evening, as Hughie lay upon the sofa, pale, suffering, but happy. “And not only one, but a whole continent of them, and,” he added, “the game as well.”
With sudden tears and a little break in her voice, the mother said, looking at her boy, “It was worth while taking the city, but I fear the game cost too much.”
“Oh, pshaw, mother,” said Hughie, “it's only one bone, and I tell you that final round was worth a leg.”