If any particular member of either squad stood out prominently it was Arnold, for Arnold had a particularly good day and scored eight of the nineteen goals. Soft ice seemed to make less difference with his skating than with that of his fellow players, for he dashed up and down and in and out in a particularly startling manner. Nor did he lose the puck as the rest did. Even along the boards on the soft side of the rink he had perfect control over it. Toby, watching, was very proud of Arnold and almost forgot about controlling the temper when Simpson, beside him, remarked to his neighbor beyond that “Deering was making a fine play to the gallery!”
As an example of scientific hockey that game was a dismal failure, and as an afternoon’s amusement it was no more successful from the viewpoint of the audience. The latter turned away when the final whistle blew looking very much as though it thought it had wasted the better part of an hour and a half. Captain Crowell was a bit peevish afterwards, in the locker-room at the gymnasium, and was heard to speculate pessimistically on what was to happen three weeks later, finally observing that he guessed the only thing that would save Yardley from getting the hide licked off her was a thaw!
Somehow, Toby, wriggling out of his togs—which he might just as well have kept out of that day—couldn’t help thinking that if Mr. Loring had been on hand that afternoon that game would have been a heap more like hockey and less like a Donnybrook Fair. And also, he reflected, if Mr. Loring had been there one Tobias Tucker might have been allowed to take some slight part in the proceedings. With only three more games left on the schedule Toby’s chance of covering himself with glory and gaining the proud privilege of wearing the crossed hockey sticks on his sweater looked very slim. This thought, added to the load of gloom he was already carrying, was almost too much for him. He was rather miserable that evening.
Mr. Loring returned to Yardley on Tuesday morning, a fact made known to Toby when he appeared at the rink while Toby and Grover Beech were earnestly striving to get the better of each other. He looked on for a minute or two and then, after Beech had sprawled into the net and he and Toby were pulling it back into position, he climbed over the barrier and joined them.
“Try these on, Tucker,” he said, holding out a pair of goal-tender’s gloves of white buckskin. Toby, wondering, dropped his stick to the ice and tugged off the old woolen-lined glove from his right hand. “They may be too large for you,” continued Mr. Loring, “but I can have them changed. How do they seem?”
“Fine,” answered Toby, awedly, working his fingers luxuriously back and forth and feeling the soft, smooth leather give pliably to every motion. Beech, taking the other glove from Toby, admired it warmly.
“Gee, Mr. Loring, but those are dandy!” he said. “I’ll bet those cost something! See the open palm, Toby, and the peachy long cuffs on them. Are you going to wear them, sir?”
“Me? No, I got them for Tucker,” replied the coach. “Do they seem all right, Tucker?”
“Y-yes, sir, they—they’re wonderful, but I—I don’t think—” Toby was plainly embarrassed. “What I mean is,” he struggled on, “that they’re much too good, sir. You see, I can’t spend much on gloves.”
“They’re supposed to be a present,” replied Mr. Loring. “If you’re too haughty to accept a present—”