Captain of the Crew

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Grove sped away and promptly returned with the announcement that St. Eustace had agreed. “But we want another goal umpire. Will you act, Hope?” Dick would, and was led away. The rink was cleared of spectators, and Trevor and Carl found places of observation on the side-line. The opposing teams took their places. The Hillton players wore crimson sweaters and stockings; before the St. Eustace goal were six blue-clad youths and one crimson, the latter being Jenkins, the borrowed forward. Grove and French, the St. Eustace captain, faced the puck, the referee cried “Play!” and the game was on.

It proved a brilliant game, despite the high wind that seriously handicapped the side having the down-river goal. Hillton’s playing in the first half was quick and plucky, and for the first ten of the twenty minutes St. Eustace’s goal was almost constantly in danger. But try after try was foiled by the brilliant work of the Blue’s goal-tend, who time and again won the applause of the shivering audience. Then St. Eustace secured the puck and forced the playing, and for a few minutes Hillton seemed to be taken off her feet. A beautifully lifted stroke finally sent the puck skimming through Hillton’s goal, and the St. Eustace players waved their sticks in delight. Hillton braced when play began again, and was dribbling the disk threateningly toward the Blue’s goal when time was called.

“I wish I had Jenkins back,” complained Grove as, bundled in his blanket, he joined Trevor and Carl. “He played better than any fellow on our team—or theirs either, for that matter.”

“Who shot that goal?” asked Carl.

“French; it was a dandy. Our little friend Billings yonder looks mad, doesn’t he?”

The displaced player had joined the St. Eustace team, and was evidently bemoaning his fate. He was a tall, freckle-faced youth who, as Grove had said, appeared every day of twenty-one or two. He had a slouchy stoop to his shoulders, but nevertheless looked dangerous as a hockey player. Dick joined the other three lads.

“I just heard your freckled-faced friend explaining why it is you’ll never make a good player, Grove,” he announced. “He says you don’t get low enough; says he could put you off your feet easily.”

“He does, eh?” grunted Grove. “I wish we’d let him play; I’d put him off his feet, the big mucker!”

“There, there, keep your sweet little temper,” laughed Dick. “And come on; time’s up.” The crowd took up its position along the boundary lines again, and again the puck was put in play. Hillton had good luck at the start. Superb team work on the part of the crimson-clad forwards took the disk down to within striking distance of their opponents’ goal, and a quick drive by Grove sent it through. St. Eustace’s goal-tend looked surprised and vexed, and the audience cheered delightedly. Four minutes later the same proceeding was repeated, and after two ineffectual tries the puck slid through between the goal-tend’s skates just where he apparently didn’t expect it to go. That was Dennison’s score, and again the onlookers voiced their pleasure. The score was now two to one in Hillton’s favor, and St. Eustace shook herself together and played hard. For ten minutes neither side scored. Then, by a brilliant rush down the side of the rink, Jenkins, the borrowed player, fooled the Hillton cover-point, and, aided by French, ran past point and lifted the disk through between the Hillton posts—a difficult shot that won him lots of applause. The score was now tied, with a scant five minutes of play left.