SURPRISING CLIFFORD
"There comes the Clifford team, fellows!"
"Give 'em a cheer to warm up their hearts, and let 'em know we look to
winding up the best year the old school ever had with a victory over
Clifford. Now, every one with a hearty will!"
Herman Hooker, the "greatest yeller Columbia High had ever known,"
waved his big megaphone as a drum major might his baton, and from more
than five-score throats there rolled forth in concert the stirring
school slogan:
"Ho! ho! ho! hi! hi! hi! _veni! vidi! vici!_ we came, we saw, we
conquered! Columbia! Rah!"
The fine weather still hung on, though indications pointed to snow
before another night. And the ice above Rattail Island was in good
shape for the battle of hockey sticks that had been scheduled for this,
the second morning after Christmas.
Clifford had her team on the ground, and they had been showing how
lively and expert they could be, somewhat to the uneasiness of Helen
Allen, Minnie Cuthbert and some of the other girls of Columbia High.
They happened to be close to a bevy of the Clifford faithful, and heard
the encouraging cries that continually broke forth as some skater
performed an unusually fine maneuver on the ice.
And they had reason for feeling chilling doubts. Clifford had been
unbeaten in hockey up to now. With almost ridiculous ease the wonderful
seven from up-river had carried off all honors each successive winter,
until it seemed as though it were utterly useless hoping to defeat them.
No wonder then that the boys and girls coming from the upper town were
filled with enthusiasm and confidence.
"Why, girls, it's simply going to be another walk-over!" laughed a
pretty miss who carried the colors of Clifford upon her bosom, as she
proudly flaunted a flag of the same stripe.
"A case of 'Alexander with ten thousand men, went up the Alps and down
again!'" mocked a second enthusiast, smiling at Frank's sister.
"Time will tell, Susie," answered Helen, trying to appear quite
satisfied; but she knew the chances were very much against Frank and
his team.
It was wonderful, though, what dependence all those fellows of Columbia
High were putting in the presence of Frank Allen on the team.
"Frank hasn't been beaten once this year!" they kept repeating; and the
fact seemed to give them astonishing confidence.
"All right," replied one of the Clifford backers, "this is just where
he gets his bumps then."
"Yes," called out another, "from to-day this will be called the
Harrapin Field of Waterloo, because your Young Napoleon met his first
great defeat here."
"The boys haven't got over the bitter pill he rubbed in last summer and
fall, when his crowd drew the prizes in baseball, rowing and football
games. Oh! you poor Columbias, you're up against it hard to-day!" came
from a third rooter.
There seemed to be thousands of spectators present, for a close game
was expected, even though the chances were five to one in favor of
the unbeaten Clifford Seven. Of course most of these people were wise
enough to find places on the two rising banks of the river; for they
distrusted the ice; and if it ever broke with that crowd on it the
result would be a tragedy.
Still hundreds skated hither and thither, waiting for the great game
to begin. Already those in charge were marking off the field, the spot
where the ice promised best results having been selected.
Hastings and Allen, as the respective captains of the rival teams,
were talking certain matters over; while a group of players clustered
around them, eagerly drinking in all that was said.
Hastings was not so confident of an easy victory as many others. He had
been up against Frank Allen on several occasions, and knew something of
the manner in which the Columbia High School leader inspired his men
with a portion of his own amazing zeal, and unconquerable spirit.
After leaving Frank he gathered his players around him for a last few
instructions; and it could be seen that he was laying down the law with
unusual vim.
"Say, Bob Hastings ain't getting cold feet already, is he?" shouted
a Columbia student at a Clifford fellow perched on an adjacent knob,
where he had a splendid view of the shifting panorama on the broad
river.
"It'd be the first time ever then, if he did!" called the other; "this
is our game, Prentiss, and we know it from A to Izzard. Your fellows
will know more about hockey when we get through with them than they
ever knew before. See?"
"Well, somebody's in for a surprise, then," remarked the first speaker,
with a shake of his head.
"They're getting ready to play!" announced another looker-on, "and you
fellows want to button up so we can hear what goes on."
The spectators were being shoved back so as to leave the space free
that was absolutely necessary for the playing of the winter game.
"It's the same old seven, not a break!" shouted a voice, as the
Clifford players took their allotted places facing the enemy's goal.
And as the rival teams faced each other those who looked on saw that
the line-up was as follows:
_Clifford._ _Columbia._
McQuirk _Goal_ West
Hastings _Point_ Shadduck
Gentle _Cover Point_ Comfort
Coots _Center_ Allen
Adkins _Rover_ Wallace
Style _Left Wing_ Bird
Wentworth _Right Wing_ Shay
As substitute Clifford had Hollingsworth first, while Columbia passed
up Oakes.
All was as still as death while the two teams faced each other, and
the chosen referee addressed a few general directions to the players
concerning certain rules that had been changed somewhat from last
season.
"Now, get busy, fellows!" chirped a high-pitched voice from the
hillside, and which clarion call created a ripple of amusement,
destined however to be quickly stilled.
"Play!" came in the referee's commanding tones.
Instantly all was commotion. Every fellow seemed to start up as if on
springs, and it was indeed a pretty sight to see all those colored
jerseys beginning to flit hither and thither over the ice, each young
athlete ready to exert himself to the limit in order to accomplish the
task falling to his hand.
Hockey sticks circled through the air, or were held in readiness for a
stroke, as those whose hands gripped the same darted down toward the
inoffensive puck, with hostile intent.
Frank had found himself opposed to Coots in the start as the puck was
"faced," with the shoe of a hockey stick on either side. Coots had
quite a reputation as a crack beginner. He could get possession of the
rubber disc better than any other player among the Cliffords; and hence
it was usually Coots who led off whenever the puck had to be faced,
which might frequently occur during the game.
This had always given his side a great advantage, and was one of the
reasons for their astonishing success. Frank had sized the situation
up. If he could not hold his own in connection with this wizard, he
meant to try Lanky and see how he would pan out. Much depended on their
being able to get their share of starts.
Perhaps Coots was a little over-confident in the initial performance.
He had had such an easy time of it in past performances that he may
have grown a shade careless, as the best of players will.
"Frank hooked it away from him! See him go, will you? Hey! Clifford,
what's the matter with that for a beginning? Wow! what a scramble!"
shouted Buster Billings.
[Illustration: "FRANK HOOKED IT AWAY FROM HIM!"]
"But there's the left wing cornered Allen! Watch him get it from him!"
answered a faithful Clifford rooter.
"Will he--maybe, maybe not!" quoth Jack Eastwick, as Frank, rightly
gauging the downward swoop of Gentle, sent the puck over to Lanky
Wallace at just the very last second.
The tall rover was off with it in charge like a lightning express
train, and the entire bunch, as it seemed, trailing behind. Straight
at the goal he swung, made a feint that had the agile McQuirk on pins
and needles, and before the defender of the Clifford goal could recover
from his surprise, Lanky, with a cracking shot, sent the rubber disc
spinning into the net.
Then pandemonium seemed to break loose! Certainly never before since
the red Indians roved the heavily-wooded banks of the picturesque
Harrapin, had such a confusion of whoops and shouts sounded in that
shallow valley.
Herman Hooker was of course the worst offender. He paraded up and down
before his cheer corps, waving his arms like a crazy being, and leading
the volume of sound that rolled up and down the river like a mighty
battle cry of old.
And yet when the confusion that followed the making of the first goal
had once more given way to another alignment of forces on the ice,
these sounds immediately ceased as if by magic. Every eye was glued on
the crouching figures of those fourteen young athletes. Columbia hearts
beat faster than ever with new hopes; while the Clifford enthusiasts
simply bit their lips and smiled.
"That's just to coax 'em on a little. It encourages the boys some. Our
fellows are a bit stale walking over everything, so they want to make
it look interesting," said Buster's up-river friend in his ear.
The fat boy simply turned and grinned in his face; but all he said was
just the one suggestive word:
"So!"
Again play was resumed. This time Coots was on his mettle. He had had
one taste of Frank's clever tactics, and realized that unless he wished
to step down from his high pedestal he would have to brace up, and be
doing something to redeem that first fizzle.
Consequently he played like a demon to get possession of the puck, with
the result that he managed to work one of his old tricks that gave him
the desired opportunity to run away with the prize. But "once bit,
twice shy," with Frank; and Coots would not be apt to spring that same
little surprise again on Columbia's center.
Down the river surged the tide of battle, back and forth as the minutes
passed. The movements were oftimes so surprisingly rapid that many of
those who looked on were in a maze, and unable to decide just where the
flying puck might be. Indeed, they quickly learned that the easiest
method of determining this was by watching the rush of the players,
whose eyes were especially trained to keep tab on the little elusive
disc of hard rubber.
Loud above all other sounds came the shrill whistle of the referee as
again and again he called a halt in the play to admonish some daring
player that he was overstepping the lines, and carrying his enthusiasm
too far beyond the limits set by the rules.
Frank beat Coots out the third time the puck was faced. He had a few
little adroit measures of his own which Coots did not seem to know. It
began to look as though this might be a battle of giants with those two
keen-witted and swift-handed fellows to start things moving each time.
Confidence was shown in all the actions of those who backed Frank
up in the play. Whatever they may have privately thought about these
wonderful Clifford players, they no longer _feared_ them. That winning
of the first goal had told each Columbia fellow that Clifford was
vulnerable, and they believed that Frank had found the weak spot in
their armor.
Coots had gone stale! He was no longer the wonder of the past. When
Frank took the puck from him for the third time the crowd on the banks,
at least that part of it coming from up-river, fairly groaned.
"What's the matter with Coots?" was asked everywhere.
"He's off his play, and must be sick!" others said.
"Hastings had better change around and face himself, then, before it's
too late. Coots has lost his grip, sure!"
"Rats!" jeered Buster Billings, derisively; "don't you believe it a
minute. Coots is as good as ever he was. The trouble is he's now up
against his hoodoo. It ain't 'what's the matter with Coots?' but 'how
about Allen!' See?"
Again was the goal of Clifford in peril. The enemy had shoved down
until it was only necessary to shoot the puck past the guard of McQuirk
again to score.
"Brace up, you Clifford! Show us the old spirit!" howled an excitable
man, who was walking up and down the bank, unable to keep still.
"That's Rockledge, one of the Clifford High teachers, and the man who
coached their football squad. He's a Yale man!" said some one near
Helen Allen; but she only gave the party one quick look, for her whole
heart and soul just then seemed to be wrapped up in the work of her
beloved brother; nor was her great chum Minnie one whit behind in
showing the deepest interest.
McQuirk was on the alert, and his reputation as a defender of goal was
well known. Although Lanky tried another little game he found himself
up against a stone wall that time, and the disc was brushed away from
the net. Once more there was a wild rush and a scramble, in which
various sticks flashed through the air, and many a punch and blow were
wasted.
Then, through the melée, came Paul Bird speedily heading for the
Clifford goal, and dribbling the disputed puck before him. Constantly
his eyes roved to left and right as he sped onward, and apparently he
was ready to strike for a goal if threatening peril forced him hard,
although desirous of getting a closer shot.
Here was a new adversary for the defender of the net to face, and one
whose tactics must of necessity be entirely different from those of
the rover.
Every one held his or her breath. In that critical moment the keen
cutting of steel runners on the ice alone greeted the ears of that
assembled multitude. And thousands of eyes were glued upon that
flitting figure, back of which trailed six or eight players, some ready
to assist, others to block his design.
It was nearly time for the first half to come to an end. The
contestants were already breathing hard, and almost exhausted with
their strenuous labors of twenty minutes. Would Paul succeed in
launching a shot that the waiting McQuirk could not baffle in time, or
must the whistle catch him in the very act!
"There he goes!" whispered Buster, gripping his fat thighs
unconsciously as he bent forward to watch the result.
Darting forward suddenly Paul Bird had made a complicated movement with
his stick calculated to bewilder the guardian of the net. Then with one
swift stroke he sent the puck spinning along.
"Missed!" howled a delighted Cliffordite.
"Not for Joseph!" echoed Buster instantly, "don't you see it landed in
the net?"
And then the whistle of the referee announced the closing of the first
half.