THE HOCKEY CHAMPIONSHIP IS DECIDED
Roy had passed his examinations without flunking in a thing, and while
that may not sound like much of an achievement to you who doubtless are
accustomed to winning all sorts of honors, it pleased him hugely. They
had proved pretty stiff, those exams, and he had trembled in his shoes
considerably when the day for the announcement of results had come. But
it was all right. To be sure, 68 in English wasn't anything to brag
about, but he was happier over that than the 92 in Latin, which was his
highest mark.
Jack received one of the six scholarships, which carried with it beside
the honor sufficient money to cancel the year's tuition fee. Chub, too,
was happy. He was happy because he had failed only in Mathematics where
he had feared to fail all along the line.
I don't know whether Roy's mother was pleased; possibly not; possibly
she had not entirely relinquished her hopes of a scholarship for him.
But Roy's father, if his letter was to be believed, was in the seventh
heaven of bliss. Roy scowled a good deal over that letter, for it
sounded a bit sarcastic here and there! Mentally he resolved to do a
whole lot better and get higher marks in June.
"I just wish Dad had that exam to buck against," he muttered. "I'll bet
he'd make a mighty mean showing! Maybe then he wouldn't write such
letters!"
The letter, though, had accomplished just what Mr. Porter had intended
it should; it had made Roy dissatisfied with his showing and resolved to
do better the next time. And, in case I fail to record the fact in its
proper place, be it known here and now that he did do better,
considerably better, so well, in fact, that his mother's waning hopes of
scholarship honors flourished anew.
Those examinations left Horace Burlen in a peck of trouble. He had
failed in two studies and was consequently ineligible for crew work
until he had made them up. And as Horace was Crew captain and Number
Three in the boat, the whole school became interested in his
predicament. To his honor be it said, however, that he buckled down at
once to make them up, and Mr. Buckman, who was the rowing coach and
adviser, helped him to what extent the rules allowed. Crew practice
began usually in the first week of March, leaving less than a month for
Horace to square himself in the two studies. Those who didn't like him
smiled wickedly and "guessed there'd be a new captain chosen next
month." Horace's friends and adherents, consisting nowadays of about a
third of the students, declared that he wouldn't have any trouble and
advised the scoffers to "just watch him!"
Meanwhile there was the ice hockey supremacy to be determined. Ferry
Hill had scored another victory, this time over the Whittier Collegiate
Institute team, twelve goals to nine, and had practised diligently and
enthusiastically every possible moment. And so when, on a bright, cold
Saturday afternoon, Hammond crossed the river for the third and deciding
contest, Ferry Hill was in high feather and was looking for a victory.
Pride goeth before a fall.
Ferry Hill's team was made up as in the first game of the series save
that Gallup was at point in place of Bacon, who had fallen back to the
second team. The ice was hard and smooth, the barriers were lined with
spectators, the cheers of Hammond and Ferry Hill arose alternately into
the still, frosty air. Harry watched breathlessly with Spot in her arms
and Mr. Cobb tossed a puck into the center of the rink and skated back.
"Ready, Hammond?"
"Ready, Ferry Hill?"
Then the whistle piped merrily, Warren secured the puck and passed it
back to Kirby and the game was on. Skates rang against the ice as the
brown-clad forwards spread out across the rink and raced for the
opponent's goal. Kirby passed to Roy, Roy passed across to Warren,
Warren overskated, Rogers doubled back and rescued the disk, passing it
across to Roy again, Hammond's right-end charged, Roy slipped past him
against the barrier and got the puck once more, eluded the cover-point
and passed to Warren, Warren worked the puck to within ten feet of the
net and, with half the team hitting and hacking at his stick, shot the
first goal. Ferry Hill, 1; Hammond, 0.
But Hammond broke up the attack very nicely the next time, secured the
puck and charged down the rink like a troop of cavalry. Gallup was
decoyed to the left, Hadden was caught napping and the whistle blew.
Ferry Hill, 1; Hammond, 1. Hadden remorsefully kicked the snowy disk of
rubber out from the net and smote it wrathfully with his stick.
"My fault, Roy," he said.
"That's all right," answered the captain. "Gallup, you were out of place
that time. Remember that you take the puck and not the man. All together
now, fellows, get after them!"
Hammond secured the puck at the face and for several minutes the battle
raged hotly, now here, now there. Hadden stopped two tries neatly, Chub
stole the disk from a Hammond forward and took it down the rink, skating
like a cyclone--if cyclones may be said to skate--only to miss his try
at goal by a bare two inches. Twice play was stopped for off-side work
and once Warren was cautioned by Mr. Cobb against roughness. Then, when
the Hammond Point had lifted the puck far down the rink, Gallup was slow
in returning it and the speedy Schonberg was down on him like a flash,
had stolen the puck from under his nose and, charging past Chub, who had
come to the rescue, had shot it between Hadden's feet for the third
goal.
After that Fortune favored Hammond while the half lasted. Her players
worked like one man instead of seven and when the whistle blew the score
looked frightfully one-sided; Hammond, 5; Ferry Hill, 1.
"I guess they're too much for us," panted Jack as he struggled into his
sweater. Roy nodded soberly.
"I never saw better team-work," he muttered. "Well, it's all in a
lifetime."
"Well, look at the experience they've had," said Kirby. "I'll bet that
next year we'll--"
Roy turned on him sharply.
"That'll do for you," he answered. "Never mind next year, think of the
next half. Time enough for next year when we're beaten. I dare say they
will beat us, but if you think, Kirby, that I'm going to be satisfied
with any such score as they've piled up on us now you're mightily
mistaken. What we want to do is to get the jump on those chaps and
everlastingly push them around the shop!"
Mr. Cobb, who had come up in time to hear the remark, smiled approval.
"That's right," he said. "You forwards must get together better and you
must take chances. There's not much use waiting to get in front of their
goal before shooting because they've got a fine defense and a dandy
point. Force the playing, shoot whenever there's the ghost of a chance
and check harder. You must be careful about the way you treat those
fellows along the boards, Warren; I wouldn't have been far wrong if I'd
laid you off for a couple of minutes that time."
"I guess you didn't see what he was doing to me," said Warren.
"No, I didn't. But you know mighty well that we don't stand for slugging
here, no matter what the other chap does."
"That's all right," muttered Warren, "but if any chap thinks he can
slash my shins all the time and not get hurt he's a good bit mistaken."
"Well, don't you try it on when I'm coaching or refereeing," warned Mr.
Cobb coldly. "If you do--look out!"
Warren made no reply.
The substitutes and members of the second team had taken possession of
the rink and Bacon was guarding goal against the assaults of half a
dozen swooping, charging players. At the far end Hammond was perched
along the barrier, laughing and fooling, already practically certain of
victory. Roy, watching, set his jaws together and resolved that if
Hammond added to her present score it would be only after the hardest
playing she had ever done!
"You're not going to let them win, are you, Roy?"
Roy turned to find Harry beside him with Spot wriggling and twisting in
her arms. Roy petted him and had his cheek licked before he replied.
Then,
"I'm afraid we can't keep them from beating us, Harry," he answered,
"but we're going to make a lot better showing in this half than we did
in the last."
"Does your wrist hurt?" asked Harry, glancing solicitously at the silk
bandage about it. Roy shook his head.
"No, but it isn't right strong yet and Mr. Cobb thought I'd better wear
this rather than run any danger of putting it out of place again. How's
Methuselah?"
"Fine and dandy," answered Harry cheerfully. "You must come and see him;
I think he gets rather dull sometimes. I've got some more white mice.
That makes sixteen. I wish I knew what to do with them. Dad says I'll
have to kill them, but I just couldn't do it."
"Why not turn them loose?" asked Roy.
Harry giggled.
"I tried that and some of them came back and went up to John's room and
he found one in his boot in the morning. He was terribly mad about it.
John's very short tempered, you know."
"He must be," laughed Roy.
"Yes. And then yesterday he found two in the grain-chest and told Dad. I
don't think it was nice of him to tell, do you? And Dad says I'll have
to kill them."
"I tell you what," said Roy. "You keep them until warm weather and
we'll take them off somewhere and let them loose. I don't believe they'd
ever get back again."
"But they might die!"
"I don't believe so. Anyway, they'd have a fighting chance, and if you
kill them they won't have. See?"
"John said I ought to buy an owl," said Harry disgustedly, "and feed
them to him. As though I would!"
"John's a brute," said Roy. "How about the squabs?"
"Oh, they're coming fast! There are twelve already. I--I wish they
wouldn't hatch. I hate to have them killed."
"Mighty fine eating, squabs," said Roy teasingly. Harry shot an
indignant glance at him.
"Any person who'd eat a squab," she cried, "deserves to be--to be--"
But Roy didn't learn what such a person deserved, for at that moment Mr.
Cobb summoned the teams out again. Roy peeled off his crimson sweater,
looked to his skate straps and called to Jack. When the latter had
skated up Roy talked to him earnestly for a moment.
"All ready, Porter?" cried Warren.
"About six or eight feet from the corner of the goal," finished Roy.
"And bang it in without waiting for anything. Understand?"
Jack nodded and the two skated to their places. Warren and the opposing
left-center laid their sticks on either side of the puck and the
whistle sounded. There was an instant of shoving and pushing and then
the puck shot back to the Hammond side. Over to the boards it went, the
Hammond forwards strung out and dug their skates into the ice and the
puck came down to the Ferry Hill goal, flying back and forth from one
forward to another like a shuttle. Chub checked the Hammond right-center
and the two went to the ice together, a confused mass of legs and arms
and sticks. Gallup slashed wildly at Schonberg's stick, Hadden crouched
between the iron posts and the puck went flying over his shoulder into
the snow outside. The whistle piped and the disk was dug out of its
refuge and returned to the ice just in front of the Ferry Hill goal.
Chub and Gallup fell back to protect Hadden, and Roy and Schonberg faced
off. There was a moment of wild hacking of stick against stick, then the
puck slid through Roy's skates, and Schonberg, reaching around him, made
a quick slash that sent it rolling into the corner of the goal. Hammond,
6; Ferry Hill, 1. Hadden vented his disgust by smashing his stick and
had to have a new one. Back to the center of the ice went the puck,
while the Hammond supporters cheered and laughed.
Again Hammond get possession of the disk at the face and again the
cherry jerseys sped down the rink. Then _smash_! went Roy into Schonberg
and the puck was his and he was dribbling it along the boards. A Hammond
forward charged him, but Roy passed the puck inside, passed outside
himself and recovered it beyond. From the other side of the rink came
Jack's voice.
"All right, Roy!"
Past cover-point went Roy, and then, just as point flew out toward him,
he shot the puck at an angle against the boards just back of goal. He
went down the next moment before the savage bodychecking of point, but
he didn't mind, for the puck, carroming against the barrier, had shot
out at the other side of goal where Jack was awaiting it and was now
reposing coyly in the farthermost corner of the netting. Ferry Hill went
wild with joy. Six to two sounded far more encouraging than had six to
one. Hockey sticks waved in air as the players skated back to their
places.
"That's the stuff, fellows!" called Roy. "Good shot, Jack! Now let's
have another one!"
But there were no more goals for a while, although the game went fast
and furious. Gallup received a cut over the left eye that sent him out
of the game and Bacon took his place. Then the Hammond left-center was
put off for two minutes for tripping and Ferry Hill thought she had
found her chance to score again. But Hammond's remaining six played so
well that Ferry Hill was held off until the penalized player returned to
the game. Along the boards the watchers were kicking their shoes to
bring warmth to their feet. The sun had dropped behind the wooded hills
across the river and the rink was in shadow.
Presently Ferry Hill had the puck in the middle of the ice and her
forwards flew to their places. Down the rink they charged, the disk
flying from Kirby to Warren, from Warren to Jack Rogers and ultimately
from the latter's stick past goal's knees into the net. Hammond, 6;
Ferry Hill, 3.
There were eight minutes more to play. Ferry Hill seemed to have found
her pace at last; perhaps the last two goals had encouraged her. At all
events she played as she had never played all season. Roy was a streak
of greased lightning, Jack was a tornado, Warren and Kirby shot about as
though they had wings on their shoes instead of mere steel runners, Chub
was a bull-dog and a fierce and speedy one, Bacon seemed to have eyes in
the back of his head and Hadden was invulnerable. Ferry Hill was forcing
the playing now and for minutes at a time she appeared to have things
all her own way. Only the Hammond goal-tend saved the day for the Cherry
and Black. Time and again he was the only defense left and time and
again he turned seeming success into failure for the swooping enemy.
Then came another carrom back of goal, again Jack was on the spot and
once more the Ferry Hill sticks danced in air. Hammond, 6; Ferry Hill,
4!
Hammond was beginning to show herself tuckered. Her right-center was
plainly played out and gave his place to a new man. Even Schonberg
exhibited signs of failing strength and no longer played with the dash
and brilliancy with which he had begun the contest. And as the enemy
weakened Ferry Hill strengthened. Schonberg went to the ice and his
stick flew out of his hand while Roy flew on with the puck slipping
along in front of him. Kirby sent cover-point out of the play, the disk
slid along the snowy ice to Warren and he lifted it at goal. Goal-tender
stopped it with his knee, slashed it aside and crouched at the corner of
the net. Roy turned on his heel, found the puck as it flew by and rushed
back to goal. The whole Hammond team was about him and sticks banged and
whizzed. It was a bedlam of cries and whacks and the grind of steel on
ice. Science was forgotten for the moment; Hammond was fighting tooth
and nail to drive back the invader. Once the puck was wrested from Ferry
Hill and shot back up the ice to the middle of the rink, but Chub was
awaiting it and brought it back, speeding along like an express train.
He passed to Kirby in time to fool a Hammond forward, dodged, received
the puck again and charged down on goal, dispersing the foe by the sheer
impetus. Sticks flew about his feet and point threw himself at him. Then
came a quick side pass to Roy, the sharp sound of stick against puck and
the ring of the iron post as the hard rubber disk struck it and glanced
in. Five to six, and Ferry Hill coming all the time! How the
brown-decked boys along the sides yelled! Mr. Cobb consulted the
time-keeper.
"Two minutes left!" he called.
"Time enough to win in!" shouted Roy.
"Sure!" answered Jack triumphantly. With sticks gyrating they sped back
to their positions. But Hammond was in no hurry now and the time-keeper
kept his eyes carefully on his stop-watch until finally the whistle
shrilled again. Then back to the fray went the brown jerseys and over
the ice sped the Ferry Hill skates. A rush down the rink and again the
Hammond goal was in danger. A quick swoop of Warren's stick and the puck
was winging straight for the goal. But a gloved hand met it and tossed
it aside. Roy swung circling back and passed across to Jack. Another
shot, this time wide of the net. Schonberg and Jack fought it out in the
corner and Jack rapped the disk out to Warren. The Hammond cover-point
checked his stick and secured the disk, shooting it down the rink. A
Hammond forward got it but was off-side. Warren joined him and they
faced near the center. A quick pass to Jack and the forwards turned and
dug their blades into the ice. Down they came, charging and passing,
past cover-point, past point, and then--
Out shot goal and away to the left rolled the puck. Roy, turning after
it, shot a quick glance at the time-keeper. Then he was fighting with a
Hammond man for possession of the elusive black disk, their bodies
crashing against the boards and their sticks flying hither and thither.
But Warren came to the rescue, poked the puck out from under the
Hammondite's skate and passed it across to Kirby in front of goal.
Another try and another stop by the Cherry's goal-tend. And so it went
and so went the precious seconds. And then, suddenly, with the puck
within a yard of goal once more and Roy's stick raised for a shot, the
whistle rang out!
"Time's up!" announced Mr. Cobb.
Roy turned fiercely.
"It can't be up!" he cried, skating toward the referee.
"It is, though," was the answer.
"That's perfect nonsense!" said Roy hotly. "You said there was two
minutes left just a minute ago!"
"That'll do, Porter," said Mr. Cobb coldly.
Roy dropped his eyes, swallowed something hard in his throat and
examined a cut on his hand. Then,
"Beg pardon, sir," he said. "This way, fellows! A cheer for Hammond--and
make it good!"
Well, it wasn't very good. But then you can scarcely blame them when
another second would perhaps have tied the score. But they cheered, and
Hammond answered it; and the hockey season had ended with a defeat for
Ferry Hill. Schonberg skated over to Roy and held out his hand.
"You had us on the run, Porter," he said. "If we'd played five minutes
longer you'd have won. You've got a slick team, all right! How about
next year? You're going to keep the team up, aren't you?"
"Sure," answered Roy. "And we're going to lick the stuffing out of you!"
The rival captain laughed good-naturedly.
"That's right. We've had a dandy time playing you chaps and we'll be
ready again next year. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," answered Roy as graciously as he could. "Glad you fellows
came over."
He turned and found Jack beside him.
"Say, Jack," he asked, "what's the longest period of time you can think
of?"
"I don't know," answered Jack soberly. "What's the answer?"
"One year," was the glum reply.