“All right, then, I’ll see you at eleven. I’m awfully glad, Toby. You deserved it, too. Every one says that. Lots of fellows were as pleased as anything when Doc announced your name. I guess you got as much clapping as any of them!”
“Did I?” asked Toby in surprise. “Why, I didn’t suppose many fellows knew anything about me! I guess—I guess you’re just jollying!”
“Honest, I’m not! Lots of fellows around where I was sitting nearly clapped their old hands off for you, and four or five said afterwards that they were mighty glad you’d copped it. So long! Come up to the room at eleven, eh?”
Toby nodded and turned back toward the entrance to Oxford. It seemed strange, even incredible, that any one should have cared whether he won that scholarship. But it was mighty nice. It made things even better. He hadn’t supposed that he had any friends in school beside Arnold and, perhaps, a couple of chaps in his own class who had been more or less chummy at times. Well, he would just have to show them and Doctor Collins and—and every one that he really deserved it. He would study as hard as anything and maybe—well, it was only a chance, but maybe, he’d finish in June an Honor Man! Rather a stupendous dream, that, but Toby was feeling stupendous this morning!
CHAPTER IX
T. TUCKER PLAYS GOAL
Toby set himself earnestly to learn hockey. I’m not going to tell you that after a week of sliding and whanging around with the third or fourth squad he displayed such a marvelous ability that Yardley Hall was amazed and delighted at the advent of a new star, or that Orson Crowell, bowing his head in surrender, offered him the captaincy. Such a thing may happen sometimes, although it is usually in stories, but it didn’t happen in Toby’s case. No, sir, not by a lot! Toby began by being just about as awkward and useless as any one could be. For the first day or two he evidently believed that a hockey stick was meant to trip over, and when he did use it for other purposes, he wielded it like a baseball bat. However, after he had cut Fanning’s forehead open with one of his wild swings, and been sternly reminded for the tenth time that the rules forbade lifting the stick above the shoulder, he handled it more discreetly. Loring Casement, who was slated for the second team captaincy, had charge of the third and fourth squads, and Loring made the mistake of sizing up Toby as a possible forward, and for the better part of a week, in fact until the Monday following the game with St. John’s School, he was allowed to dash wildly and more or less confusedly about the ice to his own vast enjoyment and the entertainment of the spectators. Toby’s method of advancing the puck was to get a good start, stumble over his stick, slide a few yards, scramble to his feet again and hurl himself on the nearest adversary, whether said adversary happened to have possession of the puck at the moment or not. We are told that a rhinoceros, being wounded, will charge at the first object he sees, whether it is a man or a tree or an ant-hill. These were Toby’s tactics. The first person who met his eyes was his prey. It took Toby several experiences to connect his thunderbolt charges with the blowing of the referee’s whistle and the cessation of play. But eventually, after Casement had almost tearfully reiterated that the rules prohibited the checking of a player not in possession of the puck, Toby saw his error. Possibly he would have developed after awhile into a fair sort of center or wing, although all indications were against that supposition, but he wasn’t given the chance. On that Monday before mentioned Captain Crowell advised Casement to try Toby at defense, and so Toby suddenly found himself at point.
Playing point is vastly different from scurrying up and down as a forward, as Toby discovered. When you played point you did a lot of waiting and watching, and when you did have anything to do you had a whole lot! It was rather a breathless moment for him when, for the first time, he set himself in the path of the invaders. It almost made him dizzy trying to keep his eyes on the puck, which was slipping from one onrushing forward to another, and when he did check he got the wrong man and the puck was in the net by the time he had scrambled to his feet again. The goal-tend viewed Toby disgustedly and muttered uncomplimentary things. But Toby showed up better on defense than attack, soon got a glimmering of what was expected of him and, whatever his faults may have been, never exhibited any lack of enthusiasm. The heel-plates had so far failed to arrive—they did come eventually, but not yet—and so Toby had to wear his old skates. They were forever coming loose and causing him trouble and delaying the game. His team-mates begged him to “scrap ’em, Tucker, and buy some skates.”