Dick and Charlie really played a remarkably fine game for their age, and were indefatigable in their efforts to teach the team how to dodge, and stop short, and back up, and play together, etc.; and it was quite dark when a dozen dead-tired but hopeful and enthusiastic boys started for home, their skates over their arms.
Finally Washington's birthday dawned bright and clear.
"And it is to-day the great game—yes?" asked Dr. Hartmann, as he watched Charlie's serious face at the morning coffee. "And the Kaiser, he will be there?"
Charlie laughed such a clear ringing laugh it did the Herr Doctor's heart good to hear it. There did not seem to be an atom of homesickness left in the hoy, and all because of a game! Truly the sporting spirit was a strange and unaccountable thing.
No, the Kaiser was not at the Grunewald, but quite a number of brilliant uniforms lined the little sheet of ice on that memorable afternoon. The boys were in old and variegated sweaters—a great contrast to the smart military team that walked gingerly across the slippery ice while the officers on the bank chaffed them in ringing tones.
"Stillgestanden! Kopf in die Höhe!" (halt! head up!) cried one. "Knochen zusammen!" (legs together) called another; while a gaudy yellow hussar exhorted one to "shake himself into his coat."
Their amusement only increased when the Prussian force stood up in line, their faces crimson from the effort of putting on their skates without the help of a Bursche.
Frank Moore, a friend of the Hartleys, had promised to act as umpire, and had made all the necessary arrangements. After a little preliminary skirmishing, Dick and a big hussar with a fierce red mustache shook hands and declared themselves ready. Then the two teams lined up. The umpire placed the block in the centre of the field, and the whistle blew. Like a flash the forwards bore down upon the little solid vulcanized rubber block, the officers reaching it first.
"Spread out!" cried Dick. "Guard your field!"
The big hussar tried to dodge, but he was between too many fires; so, swinging his hockey, he gave the ball a tremendous whack, which sent it spinning down towards the goal. "After it! after it!" he yelled to his lagging team. "Great Scott! we'll—machen ein goal!" recollecting himself suddenly. But there was no goal, for the ball went out of bounds thirty yards from the posts.