“Possibly. But we won’t worry ourselves with regrets. We’ll look forward, Crowell, and see if we can’t pull that team together so that it will everlastingly wallop Broadwood two weeks from next Saturday! I dare say that what I should have done is had this talk with you a month ago. But never mind that now. I’ll drop around to-morrow evening—I guess we’ve said all that’s to be said for the present—and we’ll plan things for Saturday. Good-night, Crowell.”
Mr. Loring held out his hand and Crowell grasped it tightly.
“Good-night, sir,” he said, “and thanks. I’m not nearly so afraid of the Broadwood game as I was! You do think we can win it, don’t you, sir?”
“Hands down, Cap!” answered the coach. “You wait and see what we can accomplish in two weeks of pulling together!”
And so it came about that when the referee skated to the center of the rink armed with puck and whistle two afternoons later it was Toby Tucker who stood guard at the south goal, Toby very sturdy-looking and straight in toque and sweater and padded khaki pants and magnificent white leg-guards, his white-gloved hands holding his stick across his body, his blue eyes very bright and alert and his mouth set firmly and straight. Toby made a dazzling figure there in the cold sunlight of a boisterous winter day and, in his costume of dark-blue and white, against the yellow boards of the barrier and the wind-swept sky above, might almost have stepped from a poster. In front of him Hal Framer leaned on his stick, and beyond stood Ted Halliday, and then Crumbie, and, finally, facing the Rock Hill left wing, Orson Crowell. To the right was Arnold Deering and to the left Jim Rose. At the other end of the rink, poised on impatient skates, was the Rock Hill College team, colorful in gray and crimson. A hard, north-westerly gale blew across the ice, stinging faces and numbing fingers and, at times, whirling little clouds of powdery snow in air. A steady thump-thump sounded as the spectators crowded close to the barrier kicked their shoes against the boards to warm fast-chilling feet. Behind the nets, ulstered, hands plunged deep into warm pockets, the goal umpires stood and shivered. Then the referee poised the puck with one hand above the waiting sticks and raised the whistle to his lips. The tattoo against the boards died away. A shrill blast sounded, the gray disk of rubber dropped to the ice, sticks clashed, skate-blades bit and the game began.
On the bench, one of a half-dozen other coated and blanketed figures, sat Frank Lamson. Frank was still struggling with the surprise that had overwhelmed him three minutes before when Coach Loring, calling the line-up, had announced the name of Tucker instead of Lamson. Frank was still not quite sure the coach had not made a mistake! Only, if he had, why didn’t he discover it? And what was Orson Crowell thinking of that he hadn’t entered a protest against such absurdity? Frank stole a wondering glance along the length of the bench to where Coach Loring sat. The coach was looking intently at the game and evidently saw nothing wrong. Slowly, as the figures dashed up and down and in and out and the ring of steel and the clash of sticks and the cries of the players filled the air, it was borne to Frank that Toby had superseded him, that Coach Loring had done what he had done intentionally, that Crowell had connived at it, that, in short, he, Frank Lamson, was only a second-string man! Surprise grew to incredulity and incredulity to dismay. He wondered what the fellows on the bench with him thought of it, and turned to see. But they were all following the flying puck absorbedly, evidently with no thought for the stupendous wrong that had been committed! Indignation surged over him. Anger filled his soul. So they thought they could treat him that way and get away with it, did they? They thought they could oust him without a word of explanation and put a mere fifteen-year-old, inexperienced kid in his place? Well, they’d find out their mistake! No one could treat him like a yellow pup, by jingo! He’d show them so, too! Superbly he arose from the bench, dropped his blanket with a gesture of magnificent disdain and turned his back on the scene. Unfortunately, however, not a soul saw him, for at that moment Rock Hill had the puck in front of the Yardley goal and six pushing, slashing players were fighting desperately there. And no one saw him make his way off up the slope, bracing himself against the gale, for just then the referee’s whistle sounded and Rock Hill was brandishing sticks in triumph and skating, with perhaps a mere suggestion of swagger, back to her own territory. So Frank’s dramatic defiance was lost and neither Coach Loring nor Captain Crowell nor any of Frank’s companions knew that he had withdrawn in outraged dignity and left them to their fate.
The game went on again. [Toby, a little pale, crouched and watched.] He was hating himself for letting the puck get by a minute ago. It had been almost impossible to follow it. Sticks, feet, bodies had mingled confusedly before him. He had repelled one attempt after another with skates and stick, the goal had tilted under the surge of the struggling players, blades had whacked against his leg-guards, the world had been a maelstrom of blue legs and crimson—and then the whistle had blown and, behold, there was the puck a fair six inches past the opening! How it had got by him he never knew, but there it was, and the goal umpire had waved his hand and the tragic blast of the whistle had sounded! And Toby’s heart was filled with woe!
But there wasn’t much time to spend in regrets, for once more the Rock Hill forwards, strung out across the ice four-abreast, were bearing down on him. The puck slithered away across to the left and Arnold charged at his opponent. But a carom against the boards fooled him and the red-legged enemy secured the disk again and slid it back. Halliday missed it by an inch and he and the left center went down in a kicking heap. There was only Framer now, and the puck was but twenty feet away. Toby slid to the left, crouched, his heart beating hard.
Framer tried to intercept the pass to the right wing but only succeeded in diverting the puck to the right center. Crowell, dashing in like a whirlwind, lifted the opponent’s stick, slashed at the puck, missed it and went past. Framer was on it—had it—was off down the ice, almost free! Followed a wild scramble then. The Rock Hill cover point fell slowly back to position. Crowell fell in behind Framer and Arnold tried hard to get into place for a pass. Then the cover point dashed forward, Framer slipped the puck to the right and dodged to the left, skates grated harshly, Arnold swerved in, reached, found the disk with his stick, circled back, passed across to Crumbie—