“You ought to see us lick Broadwood at hockey,” said Gerald.
“Hockey? Let me see, we used to call that shinny or shinty when I was a boy, didn’t we?”
Alf explained the modern form of the game and they talked over the outlook for the season. “I’m going to get the team together in about a week,” he said. “Sometimes we have fairly good ice before Christmas, and when we don’t we can get a lot of practice at shooting in the gym. I’m going to try and make a goal out of Dan.”
“I’d like to play myself,” said Tom, “if Dan’s going to be the goal. What’s he going to do? Stand and hold his mouth open?”
“I’m going to try for the team, too, sir,” said Gerald importantly.
“Are you?” asked his father with a smile. “Well, don’t get hurt, son. Ice is hard stuff to fall on, and it seems to me that I recollect getting hit once or twice on the shins with a stick. It was rather painful, I believe.”
“It hurts like the dickens,” laughed Alf. “And when your hands are cold and some one raps them it feels as though they were busted.”
“What do you play for?” asked Mr. Pennimore. “I mean what is the trophy?”
“There isn’t any, sir. We just play for the honor. Beating Broadwood is enough in itself.”
“Ah, I see. I was going to propose putting a cup up. How would that do?”