“And Gerald is going to run in the mile,” said Alf. “So you can add that, too.”
“I really am going to try,” said Gerald earnestly. “Tom says I can make the team, even if I don’t win points.”
“Why not?” asked Alf, with a wink at Dan. “That’s an easy way to get your Y. Look at Tom. He’d never have got it any other way!”
“He’s got it in three things,” said Gerald enviously.
“Oh, that’s just because when you once win it nobody cares how many more you get,” said Alf carelessly. “It’s like shinning up a tree. After you get to the first branch the rest is easy.”
“I—I wish I could get to the first branch then,” laughed Gerald.
“Oh, you will. Just keep on shinning.”
That day the warm spell had disappeared, and when Dan and Gerald returned to Clarke there was a bitter northwest wind blowing.
“This means plenty of ice to-morrow,” said Dan.
The ice was there, but it was in such rough shape that it was necessary to re-flood the rink sufficiently to get a new surface, and instead of hockey practice on Monday afternoon the team had manual labor. Unfortunately Mr. McCarthy’s pump had given out, and so, after some study of the problem, Alf organized a bucket brigade. It was cold work dipping water from a hole in the river ice and carrying it by pailfuls a good thirty yards to the nearer corner of the rink. The water froze around the rim of the buckets and the ice had to be knocked away after every third or fourth trip. And it was hard on hands, too. But there were twenty odd boys in the brigade, each with a bucket, and at last the old surface was flooded over. That was on Monday, and on the following Saturday was to come the last game before the Broadwood contest and Alf was impatient to get back to practice. The enforced idleness showed its effect the next afternoon. Muscles were stiff, ankles weak and the fellows went at their work in a slow and half-hearted way that aroused the captain’s ire.