THE HOCKEY MATCH
The balance of the week was a busy time for Dick. His usual hour of
study before supper was dropped, and he spent that time with every
other spare moment in trying to recruit candidates for the crews.
He buttonholed boys in classroom and even in chapel, pursued them
across the frozen Yard, waylaid them in the corridors, and bearded
them in their dens; and all with small success. Those who displayed a
willingness to go in for rowing were almost invariably younger fellows
whose ambitions were better developed than their muscles. Those whom
Dick longed to secure had an excuse for every inducement he could set
forth. The seniors pleaded lessons; the upper middle fellows were going
in for baseball, cricket, anything save rowing; the lower class boys
were unpromising to a degree; and when Saturday came he found that
out of a possible ten recruits the most promising was a long-legged,
pasty-faced youth who had been dropped from the hockey team and whose
desperate desire to distinguish himself in some manner was alone
accountable for his complaisance.
That Taylor and Crocker and some of the other candidates had been
busy was evident from the first--Taylor especially, Dick told himself
bitterly.
“Try for the crew?” said one senior whom Dick approached, “why, Roy
Taylor was speaking to me about it, and I promised him I’d think it
over. But I don’t see how I can, Hope; you know yourself how beastly
hard the studies are this term; I’m an awful duffer at mathematics, and
German, too; and then as for physics--well, really I can’t see how I’m
ever going to pass.” And when Dick pointed out modestly enough that he
(Dick) had the same studies and was going in for rowing, and expected
to graduate notwithstanding, the other waived the argument aside
carelessly: “Oh, _you_, Hope! You’re different; you’re one of those
lucky beggars that never have any trouble with lessons. Why, if I was
like you I wouldn’t hesitate an instant; I’d say put me down for the
crew right away. But as it is---- By the way, is it true that you’ve
only got twenty candidates?”
“Who told you that?” asked Dick.
“Taylor, I think. That isn’t very many, is it? I don’t see how you’ll
get a crew out of that.”
“Nor do I,” muttered Dick, as he turned away discouraged.
When Saturday came, bringing Carl Gray at two o’clock with the
suggestion that Dick join him and witness the hockey match with St.
Eustace, the latter concluded that he had earned a vacation, and so
donned his warmest sweater and jacket and allowed himself to be torn
away from the subject of candidates. As the two lads crossed the yard
toward the steps that led down to the river by the boat-house they
encountered Trevor, who, when their destination was made known to him,
turned about and joined them. It was a bitterly cold day, and the wind,
sweeping down the broad river, nipped ears and noses smartly. Despite
this, however, a fair-sized audience had assembled on the ice near the
landing, where a rink had been marked out, and were either circling
about on skates or tramping to and fro to keep warm.
“Haven’t begun yet,” said Carl Gray as they reached the head of the
steps. “Looks as though they were having a debate instead of a hockey
match.”
As they reached the ice they saw that the captain of the Hillton team,
an upper middle youth named Grove, was in earnest conversation with a
St. Eustace player--apparently the captain of the opposing team--while
a circle of interested boys surrounded them. As the three approached
the gathering broke up, and Grove, spying Dick, came toward him looking
angry and indignant.
“Say, Hope, what do you think? St. Eustace wants to play that big dub
over there; see him? The fellow with the white sweater. Why, he’s
twenty-two if he’s a day! And he isn’t a St. Eustace fellow at all;
Brown knows him. He lives at Marshall and works in a mill or something.
I’ve told French that we wouldn’t play if they put him on. Don’t you
think that’s right?”
“He does look rather big and aged for a St. Eustace chap,” replied Dick
with a grin. “And of course if you’re certain he’s an outsider you’re
right not to give in. What does the St. Eustace captain say?”
“Oh, he says the fellow’s a day scholar; that he’s only eighteen; and
that they haven’t brought any subs, and that if Billings--that’s the
mucker’s name--if Billings can’t play there won’t be any game.”
“Queer thing to come all the way up here without any subs,” said Carl.
“But I tell you what you can do, Grove; offer to lend them a man. What
does Billings play?”
“Forward,” grumbled Grove. “We might do that. Who could we give them?”
“You’d have to give them a good player,” said Dick.
“I suppose so. Well, there’s Perry over there.”
“No, you don’t,” laughed Dick. “I know Perry; I talked with him the
other day; he’s the fellow you dropped from the team last week.” Grove
looked sheepish.
“Well, what business have they got trying such tricks?” he muttered
in extenuation. “I guess I’ll offer them Jenkins; he really is a good
player, Hope; you know that yourself; I’ll put Dennison in his place.
And if I do they’ll likely beat us.”
“Let ’em. Go ahead and make the offer.”
Grove sped away and promptly returned with the announcement that
St. Eustace had agreed. “But we want another goal umpire. Will you
act, Hope?” Dick would, and was led away. The rink was cleared of
spectators, and Trevor and Carl found places of observation on the
side-line. The opposing teams took their places. The Hillton players
wore crimson sweaters and stockings; before the St. Eustace goal were
six blue-clad youths and one crimson, the latter being Jenkins, the
borrowed forward. Grove and French, the St. Eustace captain, faced the
puck, the referee cried “Play!” and the game was on.
It proved a brilliant game, despite the high wind that seriously
handicapped the side having the down-river goal. Hillton’s playing
in the first half was quick and plucky, and for the first ten of the
twenty minutes St. Eustace’s goal was almost constantly in danger. But
try after try was foiled by the brilliant work of the Blue’s goal-tend,
who time and again won the applause of the shivering audience. Then St.
Eustace secured the puck and forced the playing, and for a few minutes
Hillton seemed to be taken off her feet. A beautifully lifted stroke
finally sent the puck skimming through Hillton’s goal, and the St.
Eustace players waved their sticks in delight. Hillton braced when play
began again, and was dribbling the disk threateningly toward the Blue’s
goal when time was called.
“I wish I had Jenkins back,” complained Grove as, bundled in his
blanket, he joined Trevor and Carl. “He played better than any fellow
on our team--or theirs either, for that matter.”
“Who shot that goal?” asked Carl.
“French; it was a dandy. Our little friend Billings yonder looks mad,
doesn’t he?”
The displaced player had joined the St. Eustace team, and was evidently
bemoaning his fate. He was a tall, freckle-faced youth who, as Grove
had said, appeared every day of twenty-one or two. He had a slouchy
stoop to his shoulders, but nevertheless looked dangerous as a hockey
player. Dick joined the other three lads.
“I just heard your freckled-faced friend explaining why it is you’ll
never make a good player, Grove,” he announced. “He says you don’t get
low enough; says he could put you off your feet easily.”
“He does, eh?” grunted Grove. “I wish we’d let him play; I’d put him
off _his_ feet, the big mucker!”
“There, there, keep your sweet little temper,” laughed Dick. “And come
on; time’s up.” The crowd took up its position along the boundary lines
again, and again the puck was put in play. Hillton had good luck at the
start. Superb team work on the part of the crimson-clad forwards took
the disk down to within striking distance of their opponents’ goal, and
a quick drive by Grove sent it through. St. Eustace’s goal-tend looked
surprised and vexed, and the audience cheered delightedly. Four minutes
later the same proceeding was repeated, and after two ineffectual tries
the puck slid through between the goal-tend’s skates just where he
apparently didn’t expect it to go. That was Dennison’s score, and again
the onlookers voiced their pleasure. The score was now two to one in
Hillton’s favor, and St. Eustace shook herself together and played
hard. For ten minutes neither side scored. Then, by a brilliant rush
down the side of the rink, Jenkins, the borrowed player, fooled the
Hillton cover-point, and, aided by French, ran past point and lifted
the disk through between the Hillton posts--a difficult shot that won
him lots of applause. The score was now tied, with a scant five minutes
of play left.
Trevor and Carl, deeply intent on the game, suddenly had their
attention diverted by a voice from near at hand. “What do you think
of that, now? What do those fellers in red think they’re playing,
billiards? O-oh, ain’t that awful!” It was the deposed St. Eustace
forward, Billings, who was celebrating the Blue’s recent goal, and
revenging himself on his enemies by ridiculing the home players. Carl
glared, and the throng surrounding him looked hostile to a boy.
“He ought to have sense enough to keep his mouth shut,” said Carl.
“Yes, but he’s got pluck to talk that way in this crowd,” replied
Trevor with a grin.
“Not a bit; he knows he’s safe enough. It isn’t likely that fifty or
sixty fellows would jump on one lone chap, no matter how cheeky he
was.”
The ridicule continued, but after the first recognition of the affront
the throng of Hilltonians tacitly ignored the freckle-faced youth;
indeed, in another minute his existence was forgotten, for with but
a couple of minutes to play St. Eustace’s point secured the puck,
and with a fine stroke sent it sailing down the rink into Hillton
territory, where a misplay on the part of the Crimson’s cover-point
gave Jenkins his opportunity, and the next instant Hillton’s goal was
besieged. A stroke at close quarters was blocked, and the disk skimmed
toward the side of the rink, only to be again recovered and dribbled
forward until it was once more in the possession of the redoubtable
Jenkins. There was a rush by Grove and another Hillton forward, the
sound of clashing sticks, and then out from the _mêlée_ like a shot
from a cannon sped the puck, straight for the goal and about two feet
above the ice. The Hillton goal-tend leaped to the left and turned to
receive the disk on his padded thigh. But he was too late. The puck
struck him, but was only slightly deflected, and in another moment
the St. Eustace sticks were waving high in air, and the goal-tend,
crestfallen and dazed, was ruefully rubbing his hip. Hillton returned
resolutely to the battle, and the puck was again faced, but time was
called ere it was well out of the scrimmage, and the game was St.
Eustace’s by three goals to two. Trevor turned away in disappointment,
and was confronted by the triumphant Billings, who was whirling his
stick about his head and grinning provokingly.
“Oh, easy, easy! Those kids can’t play hockey; they ought to be at
home doing needlework.” Carl muttered something uncomplimentary, and
Trevor reddened as they pushed their way through the dissolving throng.
Billings, spying Trevor as he approached, thrust himself in his path.
“Say, sonny, why don’t you kids learn the game?”
Trevor strove to keep his temper and pass, but the Marshall youth laid
a determining hand on his arm.
“You see, sonny, what you Hillton kids want to do is to learn how to
skate, see? There ain’t any use trying to play hockey until you can
skate.”
Trevor turned and smiled very sweetly.
“Perhaps you think you can skate?” he asked in a tone of polite inquiry.
“I have a hunch that way,” replied Billings with a swagger.
“That’s very nice,” answered Trevor, “because you don’t look as though
you could, you know.”
A circle of interested Hilltonians had already formed, and were
grinning their appreciation. Billings appeared somewhat astounded for
an instant. Then he thrust his jaw out aggressively, and asked angrily:
“Say, what’s the matter with you, kid? Do you think you can teach me
anything about skating?”
“Well, of course, I’m a month or two younger than you, you know”--here
the crowd snickered impolitely--“but I rather fancy that I can beat
you by a few yards in a half-mile race. Would you care to try?”
For a moment Billings looked doubtful. Possibly he thought that he had
unwittingly encountered the school’s crack skater, and feared for the
result. If he did the idea was dispelled by Trevor’s next remark.
“They don’t call me much of a skater here, you know; we have several
fellows who can beat me without trouble, but they’re all rather busy
just at present, and so, if you don’t mind putting up with something
ordinary, I’ll be glad to show you what I can about skating.” The
gentle patronage of Trevor’s tones was beautiful, and the audience
hugged itself gleefully. Billings laughed loudly and scornfully.
“You will, eh? Say, you’re awfully nice, aren’t you? Mama know you’re
out?” Trevor reddened but kept his temper.
“I fancy I could beat you by about twenty yards in a half mile,” he
said musingly.
That was the last straw, and Billings elbowed his way toward the
boat-house landing.
“Get your skates on, sonny, and I’ll show you what you don’t know about
skating.”
“Where can I get a pair?” asked Trevor, addressing the fellows about
him.
“Get Grove’s; what size shoe do you wear?” asked Carl. “Five? They
ought to fit; wait here and I’ll get them.” And he hurried off.
“Do you think you can beat him, ’Ighness?” asked one of the crowd.
“I fancy so; anyhow, I’ll do my best.” Carl returned with Groves
skating-boots, to which were screwed a superb pair of hockey skates.
Trevor tried them on, and found that they fitted perfectly. News of the
proposed race had spread, and those who had started toward their rooms
had returned, while the two hockey teams, having taken off their skates
and donned their heavy clothing, also joined the throng. Billings swept
up majestically, and Trevor, who had been trying his skates in short
circles, joined him.
“Suppose you skate around Long Isle and back,” suggested Grove; “that’s
about a half mile. We’ll draw a mark here for the finish. I say,
French, you might act as judge at the finish. Dick, you start them,
will you?”
“Standing start?” asked Dick.
Trevor looked inquiringly at Billings. “Doesn’t matter to me,” growled
that youth.
“All right. On your marks,” said Dick. “You’re to skate to the right,
around Long Isle, and return here, crossing this line in this way from
below. Is that satisfactory?”
Trevor nodded and felt for a hold with his rear blade, and Billings
uttered another growl.
“On your marks!--Set!--_Go!_”
Away they sped, Billings slightly in the lead, having learned the
science of quick starting from his hockey experience. They crossed
the river diagonally, heading for the down-stream end of the
island, Billings bending low, hands clasped behind his back, in the
approved style of American racers; Trevor more erect, arms swinging
by his sides, and apparently putting forth much less effort than his
competitor.
“Carl, can Nesbitt skate?” asked Dick somewhat anxiously. Carl shook
his head.
“Don’t ask me. I never met him until the other day. But he _can_ skate;
we can see that; the question is how well?”
“I hope he’ll win, if only to shut that bragging mucker up. Hello, look
there!”
Carl looked and uttered a groan of dismay. Long Isle, lying almost
abreast of the boat landing and about two thirds way across the river,
is in reality composed of not one, but two islands, the second,
scarcely twenty yards long, being separated from the main expanse
at its lower end by a scant two yards of ice-covered channel. This
fact had been overlooked, and now the watchers saw, at first with
surprise and then with annoyance, that the skaters had parted company.
Billings had headed for the channel, while Trevor, holding to a close
interpretation of the agreement, was making for the end of the smaller
island. The next moment Billings was out of sight; another instant and
Trevor too had disappeared.
“If Nesbitt can overcome that handicap he’s a good one,” muttered Dick.
“That’s so,” Carl assented. “It means a good fifty yards lost, I
guess.” Some of the boys had hurried across the ice to the island, and
from a point of vantage near its northern end were to be seen waving
their arms wildly. But the throng at the finish could gather no hint
from their gestures as to the progress of the racers.
“Evidently a misunderstanding there,” said French, the St. Eustace
captain, approaching Grove. “Which is Long Isle?”
“Both of ’em,” grunted Grove.
“Well, but----”
“Oh, it’s all right, I guess; Billings wasn’t supposed to know; it was
my fault; I forgot about that plaguy little bunch of land beyond there.
The fellow that crosses first wins,” he added decisively. “What do you
say, Hope?”
“That’s right; Billings couldn’t know that he was supposed to go around
both islands.”
“Very well,” answered French, “but I’m sorry there was any
misunderstanding. Your man may think that he might have won if it
hadn’t been for the mistake.”
“He may win anyhow,” said Dick dryly. “The race isn’t over yet.” French
looked to see if Dick was joking, but finding no signs of levity,
smiled politely and deprecatingly, and moved off. The next moment the
boys on the island left their places and came scrambling back across
the ice, and then a skater came into view around the up-river end of
the island and headed for the finish.
“It’s Billings,” said Dick in disappointed tones. But ere the words
were out of his mouth a second form sped into sight, and a cheer went
up from the watchers. Trevor was apparently but a half dozen yards
behind, and, although as the racers were coming directly toward the
group it was impossible to be certain on that point, seemed to be
gaining at every stride.
Carl slapped Dick boisterously on the shoulder and then hugged him
ecstatically. “Can ’Is ’Ighness skate, Dick? _Can he skate?_”
“Can he!” howled Dick. “Look, he’s even with him; he’s--by Jupiter,
Carl, he’s ahead of him!”
He was; and not only ahead now, but leading by a good three yards.
Every voice was raised in shouts of encouragement, and cries of “Hurry
up, Billings!” “Come on, Nesbitt!” “You can beat him! Brace up!” “Bully
for Hillton!” broke into the frosty air as the two racers, bearing down
swiftly, almost silently, on the finish line, sped nearer and nearer.
Twenty yards away Trevor threw a fleeting glance over his shoulder
at his straining rival, and then, suddenly bending lower over the
leaden-hued surface, fairly left the other standing and shot through
the lane in the crowd and over the line a winner by ten long yards!
[Illustration: A winner by ten yards.]
And how Hillton howled!
“Even old ‘Turkey’ couldn’t beat that!” exulted Carl.
Trevor swung about near shore and skated leisurely back to where
Billings, red-faced and panting, was explaining to French and the rest
of the St. Eustace team how it happened. But his friends looked utterly
bored at his narrative, and turned away one by one toward the landing
steps. Trevor came to a stop a yard in front of the tall, freckle-faced
youth, who paused in his explanation and regarded him angrily. The
crowd hushed its chatter in delighted anticipation. Trevor thrust his
hands under his sweater and regarded Billings with a wealth of genial
condescension.
“Any time you’d like to learn more about skating,” he remarked sweetly,
“come up. I’m always at leisure Saturday afternoons.”
Then he nodded amiably and skated away ere the outraged Billings could
summon his scattered wits to the rescue of his equally scattered
dignity.