Trevor and Carl, deeply intent on the game, suddenly had their attention diverted by a voice from near at hand. “What do you think of that, now? What do those fellers in red think they’re playing, billiards? O-oh, ain’t that awful!” It was the deposed St. Eustace forward, Billings, who was celebrating the Blue’s recent goal, and revenging himself on his enemies by ridiculing the home players. Carl glared, and the throng surrounding him looked hostile to a boy.
“He ought to have sense enough to keep his mouth shut,” said Carl.
“Yes, but he’s got pluck to talk that way in this crowd,” replied Trevor with a grin.
“Not a bit; he knows he’s safe enough. It isn’t likely that fifty or sixty fellows would jump on one lone chap, no matter how cheeky he was.”
The ridicule continued, but after the first recognition of the affront the throng of Hilltonians tacitly ignored the freckle-faced youth; indeed, in another minute his existence was forgotten, for with but a couple of minutes to play St. Eustace’s point secured the puck, and with a fine stroke sent it sailing down the rink into Hillton territory, where a misplay on the part of the Crimson’s cover-point gave Jenkins his opportunity, and the next instant Hillton’s goal was besieged. A stroke at close quarters was blocked, and the disk skimmed toward the side of the rink, only to be again recovered and dribbled forward until it was once more in the possession of the redoubtable Jenkins. There was a rush by Grove and another Hillton forward, the sound of clashing sticks, and then out from the mêlée like a shot from a cannon sped the puck, straight for the goal and about two feet above the ice. The Hillton goal-tend leaped to the left and turned to receive the disk on his padded thigh. But he was too late. The puck struck him, but was only slightly deflected, and in another moment the St. Eustace sticks were waving high in air, and the goal-tend, crestfallen and dazed, was ruefully rubbing his hip. Hillton returned resolutely to the battle, and the puck was again faced, but time was called ere it was well out of the scrimmage, and the game was St. Eustace’s by three goals to two. Trevor turned away in disappointment, and was confronted by the triumphant Billings, who was whirling his stick about his head and grinning provokingly.
“Oh, easy, easy! Those kids can’t play hockey; they ought to be at home doing needlework.” Carl muttered something uncomplimentary, and Trevor reddened as they pushed their way through the dissolving throng. Billings, spying Trevor as he approached, thrust himself in his path.
“Say, sonny, why don’t you kids learn the game?”
Trevor strove to keep his temper and pass, but the Marshall youth laid a determining hand on his arm.