“Math,” answered Toby. “Mr. McIntyre.”
“‘Kilts,’ eh? He’s a good old sort, ‘Kilts’ is. Well, so long. See you at practice.” Frank nodded, still a trifle condescendingly, and strolled off after one final hopeless tap on a steam coil, leaving Toby to gather his books and make his way down the corridor in the other direction. If, he pondered, young Lingard was really the liar that Frank dubbed him perhaps his story about getting that patched dollar from Frank was untruthful. On the other hand, though, Frank had said that Lingard was always trying to borrow money. And if that was so, why, what more probable than that Frank had loaned him some, as Lingard had stated? Well, he would probably never know the real truth of it. And, besides, he had agreed with himself to forget it. So there was no use speculating about it. But, just the same, he wished he knew! Somehow it wasn’t so easy to-day to believe in Frank’s guilt. And somehow revenging himself on Frank by beating him out for the position of goal-tend didn’t appeal to him nearly so much as it had a few days before. Of course the mere fact that Arnold hadn’t given Frank that scarf-pin proved nothing, but Toby got a lot of satisfaction from it!
CHAPTER XX
CAPTAIN AND COACH
There’s a saying to the effect that “clothes make the man.” It isn’t true, as you and I both know very well. And it is probably equally untrue that togs make the hockey player. And yet—well, those new leg-guards and those new gloves certainly had an effect on Toby. Or something did. On Thursday before the Rock Hill College game, which was, with the exception of the final contest with Broadwood, considered the most important event on the hockey schedule, Toby performed so creditably that Captain Crowell sought Coach Loring afterwards for counsel.
“That kid Tucker’s playing pretty nearly as well as Lamson, sir, don’t you think?” he asked. They were walking up to the gymnasium behind the others and Mr. Loring was making the boards creak as he stamped his feet to warm them. “The way he played to-day was corking, I thought.” Crowell’s admiration sounded grudging and the coach glanced at him speculatingly before he spoke.
“What have you got against Tucker, Crowell?” he asked.
“Not a thing,” answered Crowell in surprise. “What made you think I had, sir?”
“Well, for a week and more Tucker has played a bit better than Lamson and you haven’t so much as mentioned it—or him. I began to think that possibly you had some personal—er—dislike, Crowell.”