Much shouting seemed to make the great rink shake, as we entered; shout
after shout went up. The giant building seemed to vibrate with noise.
Mr. Bang grasped my arm and struggled through the swaying mass of people
crowding the entrances; and when I got inside I found myself beneath a
great vaulted roof ribbed by arches bearing a myriad of electric lights.
Around the ice a great amphitheatre was ranged, rising till it met the
roof; and the whole was drawn on such magnitude and the occupants of the
seats were so densely numerous, that in nearly every direction I found
it impossible to pick out individuals. I knew those black and mottled
masses ranged about me were human beings, closely packed, because they
could be nothing else, and the noise was human, but otherwise they were
merely a vague, vast mass.
We found our seats, they were behind two young men, who kept up an
almost continuous shouting, with frequent gesticulation. I suppose
throwing the arms about might be properly called gesticulating.
When not giving vent to their exuberance, they exchanged remarks in
voices that were hoarse, from liquor or shouting, possibly from both.
Only vaguely, at first, could I make out the contest. Figures were
rushing about at marvellous speed, doubling back, twisting, circling.
Sticks were banging, skates were clashing, and men were tumbling.
As my eyes became accustomed to the light I made out the costumes of the
players: some were in pale blue with white stripes, the others in red
with black stripes. Mr. Bang volunteered the information that the
players in blue were the Beavers, and those in red the Maple Leafs. My
eyes began to mark the movements and exploits of two of the players, one
was a great fat Maple Leaf, evidently known as Buster; the other a
slight, wiry, nimble, scurrying, dashing, eminently agile, fair-haired
youth, belonging to the Beavers. “Go it, Lien, well done, Beavers, lean
to it,” shouted the enthusiasts.
The name struck me, I whispered an enquiry.
“He is Mrs. Lien’s son,” said my companion.
Instinctively I named the fat man Froggy. Buster might do for the
populace, but to me he appeared a great, fat frog. No doubt Buster was a
name applied when his present proportions were less. His movements were
those of a frog; in skating he held his legs far apart and drew them
after him, skate edge to ice. He was “Back” on his side, a sort of
outpost to the goal-keeper. His movements were deliberate and seldom
hurried, at least they were performed in a matter of fact sort of way,
yet they were wonderfully effective.
Clashes between Lien and Froggy were frequent. In fact the game seemed
to be carried on through the strivings of these two. The movements of
the forwards were too quick almost for the eye to follow, but out of the
confusion Lien would dart, manoeuvring the puck. Now he would slam it
against the side boards and dodging his opponents, pick it up and on
towards the goal and the obtruding Froggy. Again he would carry it down
the middle of the rink, feinting, feigning, dodging: he was simply
marvellous. Soon I too was breathless with excitement and felt glad the
two young men made so much noise, for my enthusiasm matched theirs. Even
the infection carried to my companion, as shown by his fixed attention
and occasional shout of approval or groan of dismay.
Once the Leafs carried the puck close upon the goal of the Beavers and
the raid ended in a grand mêlée. Out of this darted Lien with the puck,
with two swift raiders after him. The whole sheet of ice was clear save
for Froggy and the goal-keeper. Blows fell upon Lien’s stick and bodies
bumped against him, but he managed to worm his way through. Then he was
forced against the right side of the rink, and it looked as if he would
be either checked or compelled to resort to the dangerous expedient of
bumping the puck into the boards. His opponents closed in, and he
manoeuvred his club to dash the puck against the boards.
But it was a feint. So quick that eye could scarce follow the move, he
twitched the puck into the middle of the ice, jumped over an opponent’s
club, and picking up the puck again, was off. The cheer that went up
seemed as if it would lift the roof, friend and foe seemed to combine in
frenzy. In a second he was upon Froggy, my heart stood still. For the
first time he eluded him and shot the puck at goal. The cheering was
frantic, evidently anticipating a victory. But not yet. The puck was met
by one of the goal-keepers and although young Lien threw himself against
the goal-keeper, as if to carry puck and man together in the onslaught,
the desperate recourse was of no avail. With his skate the goal-keeper
knocked away the puck and a friendly stick sent it spinning behind the
goal. Everybody, including myself, cheered.
“A fast game,” murmured my companion. “How do you like it?”
“It’s grand, Oh! I adore it—the excitement,” and I smiled. It was the
first time I had felt cordial towards him.
Almost at once after the unsuccessful try the puck was at the Beavers’
goal, threatening it—occasion for more shouting. What a fast game
hockey is! How exhilarating to watch! How I envied those boys. What
excitement, what exhilaration it must be for them! Here was fame
spontaneous, overwhelming, real. This was their world, much what the
social world would be to me,—I hoped.
Time was called and the cheering fell to a subdued murmur. The players
left the ice for their dressing-rooms. The first period was over—no
score.
The interval, of course, was devoted to conversation, but I used the
opportunity to look about me.
I could see people, no doubt in society, women well and fashionably
dressed, men prosperous-looking and intelligent. But my opportunities of
observation were extremely limited, extending only to right and left of
me a small distance, in front of me and behind. Of course, it would not
be good form to stare over my shoulder too often. The opposite side of
the amphitheatre and the ends were too far distant for exact
observation.
“Say, I tell you, this is some game,” I heard one flashy young man say
to the other.
“That ain’t no lie,” replied his companion.
“First period gone, and no score!”
“That’s going some.”
“Lien is right up to the mark; say that fellow could get five thousand
dollars a season if he turned professional.”
“That ain’t no lie neither, but say, what’s the use of money to a guy
like that, his father’s got lots.”
“They say his father’s father stole it from the ‘boobs’.”
“I guess that ain’t no dream. Most fellows what get money steals it
anyway one way or another.”
“Cornering hockey tickets is stealing money I say, or makin’ a feller
stand in line all night to pay two dollars and a half each for them
ain’t no better. Tickets were bringin’ ten dollars apiece at five
o’clock this afternoon.”
Imagine paying ten dollars, or even two dollars and a half, to see a
hockey match, and my companion must have paid well for his, for he did
not purchase until to-day. I had thought the cost of admission must have
been twenty-five cents at the most; and the thousands present! I am
afraid Mr. Bang is extravagant.
The intermission ended and again the sides “faced off.” A clash of
sticks, a scraping of skates and the game was on. The crowd gave a
shout, evidently for practice, possibly it was exultation that again
something was doing, for in hockey something is doing every minute.
In the second period Lien made one of the earliest drives; he picked the
puck out of the initial scrimmage and got away with it. Of course much
noise was made. I believe our people like to work themselves into a
frenzy, noise being both the cause and the expression of that condition.
The second period was even more swift and exciting than the first; and
what an excitement there was when Lien finally scored a goal! A moment
before he had fallen, tripped over another player’s skate and sprawled
at full length over the ice and lay as if stunned. No doubt he was. But
waking he caught sight of the puck coming towards him. He jumped to his
feet, made a dash on goal, outwitted Froggy and landed the puck. What a
cheer there was! What yelling, shouting, cat-calls, and the hammering of
hockey sticks against the boards that bounded the ice! How proud I felt,
for I had glued my sympathy to Lien, not that I cared for his mother,
but it was that I knew something of him and I disliked Froggy, and also
(perhaps this was the most potent influence) I felt my companion’s
interest was with the Leafs and against Lien.
As I watched the continuance of the battle, the raging, storming men,
charging and clashing through entangled sticks and ringing skates, I
found my mind occupied with the problem of whether Mr. Bang’s
championing of the Leafs was due to predilections for them, or to mere
opposition.
The finish came, the Beavers away in the lead and Lien the darling of
the populace. With the close of the contest a stream of figures jumped
over the boards to the ice and crowded round the players, and in me was
awakened a spirit of pride, as I noticed the marked demonstrations
directed towards Lien.
Slowly the masses moved towards the exits. The shoutings had died away
and in its place was the shuffling of feet and the clatter of
conversation. With my cavalier I passed towards the street.
A woman hailed Mr. Bang; he turned to her. She had a clever face, with
kind eyes and was dressed in workable, rather than fashionable clothes.
“So this is your Little Partner; well, she’s all you said of her.” She
beamed at me.
“Yes, this is she,” and turning to me, Mr. Bang said, “Let me introduce
you to Mrs. Malone.”
I greeted Mrs. Malone with warmth; had she not spoken well of me, and
did not Uncle say she could make or break any boy or girl in the social
world.
“Wasn’t he lovely?” I asked with enthusiasm.
“You mean Charlie Lien? Yes, he’s a wonderful boy if he does not get his
head turned. I suppose this was quite a novelty to you?” Mrs. Malone
accompanied the question with a smile, so good natured that her question
did not appear the least patronizing.
“Believe me, she is quite a fan,” put in Mr. Bang, whereat I laughed.
We entered the street and as we did so great gusts of snow-laden wind
came down. A blizzard had got up during the process of the game and
drove against us in breath-taking, blinding swirls.
“How are you going to get home?” asked my cavalier of his jolly friend.
“Walk,” she answered.
“Walking through the storm is fine fun for the young and active———”
“But grass widows of uncertain age had better take a cab, eh?”
“I should think so.” How horribly frank Mr. Bang is; but then Mrs.
Malone seemed to take it as a joke. “Wait here and see if I can engage
one,” and away he went leaving me with her. We tried to put our backs
against the storm but this ended in our tramping round and round, for
the immense building seemed so to twist the wind that it came from every
direction at once.
“Glorious, isn’t it?” laughed Mrs. Malone.
“Yes,” I gasped.
“There is not a cab to be had,” announced the spectral figure of Mr.
Bang, as he loomed up out of the storm. “We’ll see you home; you’re good
for it, are you not, Little Partner?”
So we, notwithstanding her protests, walked home with Mrs. Malone and
sought temporary refuge in her flat, whence Mr. Bang telephoned for a
sleigh and in due course he and I arrived home. Mrs. Malone kissed me as
I left her, so no doubt I have a place in her regard, even after all
allowance is made for the warmth of her Irish heart.
I lay long awake glowing with warmth, the reaction after our struggle
through the storm, and with satisfaction at being snug in bed; while
outside the storm raged.