“Oh, it’s a bit of mean luck, Graham,” answered Alf. “Some one bagged it out of the room the other day and we haven’t laid eyes on it since. We thought, of course, that some smart Aleck had taken it for a joke, but I guess now it was really stolen.”
“That’s hard luck,” said Graham. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see the cup myself, but I heard it was a dandy.”
“It was. It will be all right, of course; I mean that if it doesn’t turn up there’ll be another to take its place, but I suppose we can’t get a new one made for a month or so. I’m awfully sorry about it, and I feel rather cheap, too, having to ’fess up to you chaps that I’ve let it get away. If I could find the fellow who took it I’d come pretty near wringing his fool neck!”
The Broadwood captain smiled sympathetically and the referee’s whistle summoned the players. The spectators, who had many of them left their positions to wander about, scurried back to the rink side. Joe Chambers searched feverishly for his notebook—for the Scholiast would have a full and detailed account of the game in its next issue. Harry Merrow squirmed his way to the front row between two good-natured Greenburg citizens; Tom and Paul Rand mounted their box near one corner of the rink; Andy Ryan snapped his bag shut and compared his watch with that of the timer’s; Yardley and Broadwood cheered vociferously; the referee tossed the puck down between the impatient sticks and the last half began.
Up on the hill at that moment, in No. 7 Dudley, Gerald was crouching on the floor and listening anxiously for the sound of footsteps in the corridor. They came finally, drawing nearer and nearer, and at length stopping outside the door. There was a knock, then silence. Another knock, and the door swung softly inward. Cautious footsteps crossed the floor to the table. Gerald raised his head above the level of Tom’s bed. Hiltz, his eyes fixed anxiously on the windows and his ears straining for sounds in the building, fumbled under his big ulster. Then the familiar maroon-colored bag appeared and he laid it on the table, the cup and base betraying their presence by muffled rattling that sounded startlingly loud in the silent room. Hiltz turned away, still listening intently, and took one step across the carpet. Then his gaze left the windows, traveled half around the room and fell full on Gerald’s.
Hiltz uttered no sound, but the color fled from his face, leaving it white and drawn. [His wide, startled eyes held Gerald’s for a long moment.] It was Gerald who finally broke the tension and the silence. He arose, brushed the dust from his knees and seated himself on Alf’s bed.
[“His wide, startled eyes held Gerald’s for a long moment.”]
“Well?” he said.
The color crept back into Hiltz’s cheeks and his expression of fright gave place to one of sullen defiance.