“You, John Maitland, more than any of us and more than all of us together can draw these lads of yours from the pool rooms and worse,” the Reverend Murdo had said one day in early winter.
“Great Scott, Padre”—the Reverend Murdo had done his bit overseas—“what are you giving me now?”
“You, more than any or all of us, I am saying,” repeated the minister solemnly. “For God's sake, man, get these lads on the ice or anywhere out-of-doors for the good of their immortal souls.”
“Me! And why me, pray?” Captain Jack had asked. “I'm no uplifter. Why jump on me?”
“You, because God has bestowed on you the gift to lead men,” said the minister with increasing solemnity. “A high gift it is, and one for which God will hold you responsible.”
That very night, passing by the Lucky Strike Pool Rooms, Captain Jack had turned in to find a score and more of youths—many of them from the mills—flashing their money with reckless freedom in an atmosphere thick with foul tobacco-smoke and reeking with profane and lewd speech. On reaching his home that night Maitland went straight to the attic and dug up his hockey kit. Before he slept he had laid his plans for a league among the working lads in the various industries in the town.
It was no easy task to force these men into training habits, to hold them to the grind, to discipline them into self-control in temper and in desire. It was of vast assistance to him that three of his seven were overseas men, while some dozen or so of the twenty in the club were returned soldiers. It was part of his discipline that his team should never shirk a day's work for the game except on the rare occasions when they went on tour. Hence the management in the various mills and factories, at first hostile and suspicious, came to regard these athletic activities on the part of their employees with approval and finally came to give encouragement and support to the games.
To-day was a half holiday for the Maitland Mills and the streets were noticeably full of the men and their sweethearts and wives in their Sunday clothes. Not the team, however. Maitland knew better than that. He took his men for a run in the country before noon, bringing them home in rich warm glow. Then after a bath and a hard rubdown they dined together at the mill and then their Captain ordered them home to sleep, forbidding them the streets till they were on their way to the game.
On his way home Captain Jack was waylaid by his admirer and champion, Patricia. She, standing in front of his car, brought him to a halt.
“I have not even seen you for a whole week,” she complained, getting in beside him, “and your phone is always busy in the evening. Of course no one can get you during the day. And I do want to know how the team is. Oh! do tell me they are fit for the game of their lives! Are they every one fit?”