Mr. John Craven could not be said to take his school-teaching seriously; and indeed, any one looking at his face would hardly expect him to take anything seriously, and certainly those who in his college days followed and courted and kept pace with Jack Craven, and knew his smile, would have expected from him anything other than seriousness. He appeared to himself to be enacting a kind of grim comedy, exile as he was in a foreign land, among people of a strange tongue.
He knew absolutely nothing of pedagogical method, and consequently he ignored all rules and precedents in the teaching and conduct of the school. His discipline was of a most fantastic kind. He had a feeling that all lessons were a bore, therefore he would assign the shortest and easiest of tasks. But having assigned the tasks, he expected perfection in recitation, and impressed his pupils with the idea that nothing less would pass. His ideas of order were of the loosest kind, and hence the noise at times was such that even the older pupils found it unbearable; but when the hour for recitation came, somehow a deathlike stillness fell upon the school, and the unready shivered with dread apprehension. And yet he never thrashed the boys; but his fear lay upon them, for his eyes held the delinquent with such an intensity of magnetic, penetrating power that the unhappy wretch felt as if any kind of calamity might befall him.
When one looked at John Craven's face, it was the eyes that caught and held the attention. They were black, without either gleam or glitter, indeed almost dull—a lady once called them “smoky eyes.” They looked, under lazy, half-drooping lids, like things asleep, except in moments of passion, when there appeared, far down, a glowing fire, red and terrible. At such moments it seemed as if, looking through these, one were catching sight of a soul ablaze. They were like the dull glow of a furnace through an inky night.
He was constitutionally and habitually lazy, but in a reading lesson he would rouse himself at times, and by his utterance of a single line make the whole school sit erect. Friday afternoon he gave up to what he called “the cultivation of the finer arts.” On that afternoon he would bring his violin and teach the children singing, hear them read and recite, and read for them himself; and no greater punishment could be imposed upon the school than the loss of this afternoon.
“Man alive! Thomas, he's mighty queer,” Hughie explained to his friend. “When he sits there with his feet on the stove smoking away and reading something or other, and letting them all gabble like a lot of ducks, it just makes me mad. But when he wakes up he puts the fear of death on you, and when he reads he makes you shiver through and through. You know that long rigmarole, 'Friends, Romans, countrymen'? I used to hate it. Well, sir, he told us about it last Friday. You know, on Friday afternoons we don't do any work, but just have songs and reading, and that sort of thing. Well, sir, last Friday he told us about the big row in Rome, and how Caesar was murdered, and then he read that thing to us. By gimmini whack! it made me hot and cold. I could hardly keep from yelling, and every one was white. And then he read that other thing, you know, about Little Nell. Used to make me sick, but, my goodness alive! do you know, before he got through the girls were wiping their eyes, and I was almost as bad, and you could have heard a pin drop. He's mighty queer, though, lazy as the mischief, and always smiling and smiling, and yet you don't feel like smiling back.”
“Do you like him?” asked Thomas, bluntly.
“Dunno. I'd like to, but he won't let you, somehow. Just smiles at you, and you feel kind of small.”
The reports about the master were conflicting and disquieting, and although Hughie was himself doubtful, he stood up vehemently for him at home.
“But, Hughie,” protested the minister, discussing these reports, “I am told that he actually smokes in school.”
Hughie was silent.
“Answer me! Does he smoke in school hours?”
“Well,” confessed Hughie, reluctantly, “he does sometimes, but only after he gives us all our work to do.”
“Smoke in school hours!” ejaculated Mrs. Murray, horrified.
“Well, what's the harm in that? Father smokes.”
“But he doesn't smoke when he is preaching,” said the mother.
“No, but he smokes right afterwards.”
“But not in church.”
“Well, perhaps not in church, but school's different. And anyway, he makes them read better, and write better too,” said Hughie, stoutly.
“Certainly,” said his father, “he is a most remarkable man. A most unusual man.”
“What about your sums, Hughie?” asked his mother.
“Don't know. He doesn't bother much with that sort of thing, and I'm just as glad.”
“You ought really to speak to him about it,” said Mrs. Murray, after Hughie had left the room.
“Well, my dear,” said the minister, smiling, “you heard what Hughie said. It would be rather awkward for me to speak to him about smoking. I think, perhaps, you had better do it.”
“I am afraid,” said his wife, with a slight laugh, “it would be just as awkward for me. I wonder what those Friday afternoons of his mean,” she continued.
“I am sure I don't know, but everywhere throughout the section I hear the children speak of them. We'll just drop in and see. I ought to visit the school, you know, very soon.”
And so they did. The master was surprised, and for a moment appeared uncertain what to do. He offered to put the classes through their regular lessons, but at once there was a noisy outcry against this on the part of the school, which, however, was effectually and immediately quelled by the quiet suggestion on the master's part that anything but perfect order would be fatal to the programme. And upon the minister requesting that the usual exercises proceed, the master smilingly agreed.
“We make Friday afternoons,” he said, “at once a kind of reward day for good work during the week, and an opportunity for the cultivation of some of the finer arts.”
And certainly he was a master in this business. He had strong dramatic instincts, and a remarkable power to stimulate and draw forth the emotions.
When the programme of singing, recitations, and violin-playing was finished, there were insistent calls on every side for “Mark Antony.” It appeared to be the 'piece de resistance' in the minds of the children.
“What does this mean?” inquired the minister, as the master stood smiling at his pupils.
“Oh, they are demanding a little high tragedy,” he said, “which I sometimes give them. It assists in their reading lessons,” he explained, apologetically, and with that he gave them what Hughie called, “that rigmarole beginning, 'Friends, Romans, countrymen,'” Mark Antony's immortal oration.
“Well,” said the minister, as they drove away from the school, “what do you think of that, now?”
“Marvelous!” exclaimed his wife. “What dramatic power, what insight, what interpretation!”
“You may say so,” exclaimed her husband. “What an actor he would make!”
“Yes,” said his wife, “or what a minister he would make! I understand, now, his wonderful influence over Hughie, and I am afraid.”
“O, he can't do Hughie any harm with things like that,” replied her husband, emphatically.
“No, but Hughie now and then repeats some of his sayings about—about religion and religious convictions, that I don't like. And then he is hanging about that Twentieth store altogether too much, and I fancied I noticed something strange about him last Friday evening when he came home so late.”
“O, nonsense,” said the minister. “His reputation has prejudiced you, and that is not fair, and your imagination does the rest.”
“Well, it is a great pity that he should not do something with himself,” replied his wife. “There are great possibilities in that young man.”
“He does not take himself seriously enough,” said her husband. “That is the chief trouble with him.”
And this was apparently Jack Craven's opinion of himself, as is evident from his letter to his college friend, Ned Maitland.
“Dear Ned:—
“For the last two months I have been seeking to adjust myself to my surroundings, and find it no easy business. I have struck the land of the Anakim, for the inhabitants are all of 'tremenjous' size, and indeed, 'tremenjous' in all their ways, more particularly in their religion. Religion is all over the place. You are liable to come upon a boy anywhere perched on a fence corner with a New Testament in his hand, and on Sunday the 'tremenjousness' of their religion is overwhelming. Every other interest in life, as meat, drink, and dress, are purely incidental to the main business of the day, which is the delivering, hearing, and discussing of sermons.
“The padre, at whose house I am very happily quartered, is a 'tremenjous' preacher. He has visions, and gives them to me. He gives me chills and thrills as well, and has discovered to me a conscience, a portion of my anatomy that I had no suspicion of possessing.
“The congregation is like the preacher. They will sit for two hours, and after a break of a few minutes they will sit again for two hours, listening to sermons; and even the interval is somewhat evenly divided between their bread and cheese in the churchyard and the discussion of the sermon they have just listened to. They are great on theology. One worthy old party tackled me on my views of the sermon we had just heard; after a little preliminary sparring I went to my corner. I often wonder in what continent I am.
“The school, a primitive little log affair, has much run to seed, but offers opportunity for repose. I shall avoid any unnecessary excitement in this connection.
“In private life the padre is really very decent. We have great smokes together, and talks. On all subjects he has very decided opinions, and in everything but religion, liberal views. I lure him into philosophic discussions, and overwhelm him with my newest and biggest metaphysical terms, which always reduce his enormous cocksureness to more reasonable dimensions.
“The minister's wife is quite another proposition. She argues, too, but unfortunately she asks questions, in the meekest way possible acknowledging her ignorance of my big terms, and insisting upon definitions and exact meanings, and then it's all over with me. How she ever came to this far land, heaven knows, and none but heaven can explain such waste. Having no kindred soul to talk with, I fancy she enjoys conversation with myself, (sic) revels in music, is transported to the fifth heaven by my performance on the violin, but evidently pities me and regards me as dangerous. But, my dear Maitland, after a somewhat wide and varied experience of fine ladies, I give you my verdict that here among the Anakim, and in this wild, woody land, is a lady fine and fair and saintly. She will bother me, I know. Her son Hughie (he of the bear), of whom I told you, the lad with the face of an angel and the temper of an angel, but of a different color—her son Hughie she must make into a scholar. And no wonder, for already he has attained a remarkable degree of excellence, by the grace, not of the little log school, however, I venture to shy. His mother has been at him. But now she feels that something more is needed, and for that she turns to me. You will be able to see the humor of it, but not the pathos. She wants to make a man out of her boy, 'a noble, pure-hearted gentleman,' and this she lays upon me! Did I hear you laugh? Smile not, it is the most tragic of pathos. Upon me, Jack Craven, the despair of the professors, the terror of the watch, the—alas! you know only too well. My tongue clave to the roof of my mouth, and before I could cry, 'Heaven forbid that I should have a hand in the making of your boy!' she accepted my pledge to do her desire for her young angel with the OTHER-angelic temper.
“And now, my dear Ned, is it for my sins that I am thus pursued? What is awaiting me I know not. What I shall do with the young cub I have not the ghostliest shadow of an idea. Shall I begin by thrashing him soundly? I have refrained so far; I hate the role of executioner. Or shall I teach him boxing? The gloves are a great educator, and are at times what the padre would call 'means of grace.'
“But what will become of me? Shall I become prematurely aged, or shall I become a saint? Expect anything from your most devoted, but most sorely bored and perplexed,
“J. C.”
In one point the master was a great disappointment to Hughie; he could not be persuaded to play shinny. The usual challenge had come up from the Front, with its more than usual insolence, and Hughie, who now ranked himself among the big boys, felt the shame and humiliation to be intolerable. By the most strenuous exertions he started the game going with the first fall of snow, but it was difficult to work up any enthusiasm for the game in the face of Foxy's very determined and weighty opposition, backed by the master's lazy indifference. For, in spite of Hughie's contempt and open sneers, Foxy had determined to reopen his store with new and glowing attractions. He seemed to have a larger command of capital than ever, and he added several very important departments to his financial undertaking.
The rivalry between Hughie and Foxy had become acute, but besides this, there was in Hughie's heart a pent-up fierceness and longing for revenge that he could with difficulty control. And though he felt pretty certain that in an encounter with Foxy he would come off second best, and though in consequence he delayed that encounter as long as possible, he never let Foxy suspect his fear of him, and waited with some anxiety for the inevitable crisis.
Upon one thing Hughie was resolved, that the challenge from the Front should be accepted, and that they should no longer bear the taunt of cowardice, but should make a try, even though it meant certain defeat.
His first step had been the organization of the shinny club. His next step was to awaken the interest of the master. But in vain he enlarged upon the boastfulness and insolence of the Front; in vain he recounted the achievements of their heroes of old, who in those brave days had won victory and fame over all comers for their school and county; the master would not be roused to anything more than a languid interest in the game. And this was hardly to be wondered at, for shinny in the snow upon the roadway in front of the school was none too exciting. But from the day when the game was transferred to the mill-pond, one Saturday afternoon when the North and South met in battle, the master's indifference vanished, for it turned out that he was an enthusiastic skater, and as Hughie said, “a whirlwind on the ice.”
After that day shinny was played only upon the ice, and the master, assuming the position of coach, instituted a more scientific style of game, and worked out a system of combined play that made even small boys dangerous opponents to boys twice their size and weight. Under his guidance it was that the challenge to the Front was so worded as to make the contest a game on ice, and to limit the number of the team to eleven. Formerly the number had been somewhat indefinite, varying from fifteen to twenty, and the style of play a general melee. Hughie was made captain of the shinny team, and set himself, under the master's direction, to perfect their combination and team play.
The master's unexpected interest in the shinny game was the first and chief cause of Foxy's downfall as leader of the school, and if Hughie had possessed his soul in patience he might have enjoyed the spectacle of Foxy's overthrow without involving himself in the painful consequences which his thirst for vengeance and his vehement desire to accomplish Foxy's ruin brought upon him.
The story of the culmination of the rivalry between Hughie and Foxy is preserved in John Craven's second letter to his friend Edward Maitland. The letter also gives an account of the master's own undoing—an undoing which bore fruit to the end of his life.
“Dear Ned:—
“I hasten to correct the false impression my previous letter must have conveyed to you. It occurs to me that I suggested that this school afforded unrivaled opportunities for repose. Further acquaintance reveals to me the fact that it is the seething center of the most nerve-racking excitement. The life of the school is reflected in the life of the community, and the throbs of excitement that vibrate from the school are felt in every home of the section. We are in the thick of preparations for a deadly contest with the insolent, benighted, boastful, but hitherto triumphant Front, in the matter of shinny. You know my antipathy to violent sports, and you will find some difficulty in picturing me an enthusiastic trainer and general director of the Twentieth team, flying about, wildly gesticulating with a club, and shrieking orders, imprecations, cautions, encouragements, in the most frantic manner, at as furious a company of little devils as ever went joyously to battle.
“Then, as if this were not excitement enough, I am made the unwitting spectator of a truly Homeric contest, bloodier by far than many of those fought on the plains of windy Troy, between the rival leaders of the school, to wit, Hughie of the angelic face and OTHER-angelic temper, and an older and much heavier boy, who rejoices in the cognomen of 'Foxy,' as being accurately descriptive at once of the brilliance of his foliage and of his financial tactics.
“It appears that for many months this rivalry has existed, but I am convinced that there is more in the struggle than appears on the surface. There is some dark and deadly mystery behind it all that only adds, of course, to the thrilling interest it holds for me.
“Long before I arrived on the arena, which was an open space in the woods in front of what Foxy calls his store, wild shrieks and yells fell upon my ears, as if the aboriginal denizens of the forest had returned. Quietly approaching, I soon guessed the nature of the excitement, and being unwilling to interfere until I had thoroughly grasped the ethical and other import of the situation, I shinned up a tree, and from this point of vantage took in the spectacle. It appeared from Foxy's violent accusations that Hughie had been guilty of wrecking the store, which, by the way, the latter utterly despises and contemns. The following interesting and striking conversation took place:
“'What are you doing in my store, anyway?' says he of the brilliant foliage. 'You're just a thief, that's what you are, and a sneaking thief.'
“Promptly the lie comes back. 'I wasn't touching your rotten stuff!' and again the lie is exchanged.
“Immediately there is demand from the spectators that the matter be argued to a demonstration, and thereupon one of the larger boys, wishing to precipitate matters and to furnish a casus belli, puts a chip upon Hughie's shoulder and dares Foxy to knock it off. But Hughie flings the chip aside.
“'Go away with yourself and your chip. I'm not going to fight for any chip.'
“Yells of derision, 'Cowardy, cowardy, custard,' 'Give him a good cuffing, Foxy,' 'He's afraid,' and so forth. And indeed, Hughie appears none too anxious to prove his innocence and integrity upon the big and solid body of his antagonist.
“Foxy, much encouraged by the clamor of his friends, deploys in force in front of his foe, shouting, 'Come on, you little thief!'
“'I'm not a thief! I didn't touch one of your things!'
“'Whether you touched my things or not, you're a thief, anyway, and you know you are. You stole money, and I know it, and you know it yourself.'
“To this Hughie strangely enough makes no reply, wherein lies the mystery. But though he makes no reply he faces up boldly to Foxy and offers battle. This is evidently a surprise to Foxy, who contents himself with threats as to what he can do with his one hand tied behind his back, and what he will do in a minute, while Hughie waits, wasting no strength upon words.
“Finally Foxy strides to his store door, and apparently urged to frenzy by the sight of the wreckage therein, comes back and lands a sharp cuff on his antagonist's ear.
“It is all that is needed. As if he had touched a spring, Hughie flew at him wildly, inconsequently making a windmill of his arms. But fortunately he runs foul of one of Foxy's big fists, and falls back with spouting nose. Enthusiastic yells from Foxy's following. And Foxy, having done much better than he expected, is encouraged to pursue his advantage.
“Meantime the blood is being mopped off Hughie's face with a snowball, his tears flowing equally with his blood.
“'Wait till to-morrow,' urges Fusie, his little French fidus Achates.
“'To-morrow!' yells Hughie, suddenly. 'No, but now! I'll kill the lying, sneaking, white-faced beast now, or I'll die myself!' after which heroic resolve he flings himself, blood and tears, upon the waiting Foxy, and this time with better result, for Foxy, waiting the attack with arms up and eyes shut, finds himself pummeled all over the face, and after a few moments of ineffectual resistance, turns, and in quite the Homeric way seeks safety in flight, followed by the furious and vengeful Achilles, and the jeering shouts of the bloodthirsty but disappointed rabble.
“As I have said, the mystery behind it remains unsolved, but Foxy's reign is at an end, and with him goes the store, for which I am devoutly thankful.
“I would my tale ended here with the downfall of Foxy, but, my dear Ned, I have to record a sadder and more humiliating downfall than that—the abject and utter collapse of my noble self. I have once more played the fool, and played into the hands of the devil, mine own familiar and well-beloved devil.
“The occasion I need not enlarge upon; it always waits. A long day's skate, a late supper with some of the wilder and more reckless outcasts of this steady-going community that frequent the back store, results in my appearing at the manse door late at night, very unsteady of leg and incoherent of speech. By a most unhappy chance, a most scurvy trick my familiar devil played upon me, the door is opened by the minister's wife. I can see her look of fear, horror, and loathing yet. It did more to pull me together than a cold bath, so that I saved myself the humiliation of speech and escaped to my room.
“And now, what do you think? Reproaches, objurgations, and final dismissal on the part of the padre, tearful exhortations to repentance on the part of his wife? Not a bit. If you believe me, sir, my unhappy misadventure remains a secret with her. She told not a soul. Remarkably fine, I call that. And what more, think you? A cold and haughty reserve, or a lofty pity, with the fearful expectation of judgment? Not in the least. Only a little added kindness, a deeper note to the frank, sympathetic interest she has always shown, and that is all. My dear chap, I offered to leave, but when she looked at me with those great hazel-brown eyes of hers and said, 'Why should you go? Would it be better for you any place else?' I found myself enjoying the luxury of an entirely new set of emotions, which I shall not analyze to you. But I feel more confident than ever that I shall either die early or end in being a saint.
“And now, do you know, she persists in ignoring that anything has taken place, talks to me about her young men and her hopes for them, the work she would do for them, and actually asks my assistance! It appears that ever since their Great Revival, which is the beginning of days to them, events being dated from before the Great Revival or after, some of these young men have a desire to be ministers, or think they have. It is really her desire, I suspect, for them. The difficulty is, preparation for college. In this she asks my help. The enormous incongruity of the situation does not appear to strike her, that I, the—too many unutterable things—should be asked to prepare these young giants, with their 'tremenjous' religious convictions, for the ministry; nevertheless I yield myself to do anything and everything she lays upon me. I repeat, I shall without doubt end in being a saint myself, and should not be surprised to find myself with these 'tremenjous' young men on the way to Holy Orders. Fancy the good Doctor's face! He would suspect a lurking pleasantry in it all.
“This letter, I know, will render chaotic all your conceptions of me, and in this chaos of mind I can heartily sympathize. What the next chapter will be, God only knows! It depends upon how my familiar devil behaves himself. Meantime, I am parleying with him, and with some anxiety as to the result subscribe myself,
“Your friend,
“J. C.”
The challenge from the Front was for the best two out of three, the first game to be played the last day of the year. Steadily, under Craven's coaching, the Twentieth team were perfected in their systematic play; for although Craven knew nothing of shinny, he had captained the champion lacrosse team of the province of Quebec, and the same general rules of defense and attack could be applied with equal success to the game of shinny. The team was greatly strengthened by the accession of Thomas Finch and Don Cameron, both of whom took up the school again with a view to college. With Thomas in goal, Hughie said he felt as if a big hole had been filled up behind him.
The master caused a few preliminary skirmishes with neighboring teams to be played by way of practice, and by the time the end of the year had come, he felt confident that the team would not disgrace their school. His confidence was not ill-founded.
“We have covered ourselves with glory,” he writes to his friend Ned Maitland, “for we have whipped to a finish the arrogant and mighty Front. I am more than ever convinced that I shall have to take a few days off and get away to Montreal, or some other retired spot, to recover from the excitement of the last week.
“Under my diligent coaching, in which, knowing nothing whatever of shinny, I have striven to introduce something of the lacrosse method, our team got into really decent fighting trim. Under the leadership of their captain, who has succeeded in infusing his own fierce and furious temper into his men, they played like little demons, from the drop of the ball till the game was scored. 'Furious' is the word, for they and their captain play with headlong fury, and that, I might say, is about their only defect, for if they ever should run into a bigger team, who had any semblance of head about them, and were not merely feet, they would surely come to grief.
“I cannot stay to recount our victory. Let it suffice that we were driven down in two big sleigh-loads by Thomas Finch, the back wall of our defense, and Don Cameron, who plays in the right of the forward line, both great, strapping fellows, who are to be eventually, I believe, members of my preparatory class.
“The Front came forth, cheerful, big, confident, trusting in the might of their legs. We are told that the Lord taketh no pleasure in the legs of man, and this is true in the game of shinny. Not legs alone, but heart and head win, with anything like equal chances.
“Game called, 2:30; Captain Hughie has the drop; seizes the ball, passes it to Fusie, who rushes, passes back to Hughie, who has arrived in the vicinity of the enemy's goal, and shoots, swift and straight, a goal. Time, 30 seconds.
“Again and again my little demons pierce the heavy, solid line of the Front defense, and score, the enemy, big and bewildered, being chiefly occupied in watching them do it. By six o'clock that evening I had them safe at the manse in a condition of dazed jubilation, quite unable to realize the magnificence of their achievement. They had driven twelve miles down, played a two hours' game of shinny, score eight to two, and were back safe and sound, bearing with them victory and some broken shins, equally proud of both.
“There is a big supper at the manse, prepared, I believe, with the view of consolation, but transformed into a feast of triumph, the minister being enthusiastically jubilant over the achievement of his boys, his wife, if possible, even more so. The heroes feed themselves to fullness, amazing and complete, the minister holds a thanksgiving service, in which I have no doubt my little demons most earnestly join, after which they depart to shed the radiance of their glory throughout the section.
“And now I have to recount another experience of mine, quite unique and altogether inexplicable. It appears that in this remarkable abode—I would call it 'The Saint's Rest' were it not for the presence of others than saints, and for the additional fact that there is little rest for the saint who makes her dwelling here—in this abode there prevails the quaint custom of watching the death of the old year and the birth of the new. It is made the occasion of religious and heart-searching rite. As the solemn hour of midnight draws on, a silence falls upon the family, all of whom, with the exception of the newest infant, are present. It is the family festival of the year.
“'And what will they be doing at your home, Mr. Craven?' inquires the minister. The contrast that rose before my mind was vivid enough, for having received my invitation to a big dance, I knew my sweet sisters would be having a jolly wild time about that moment. My answer, given I feel in a somewhat flippant tone, appears to shock my shinny captain of the angelic face, who casts a honor-stricken glance at his mother, and waits for the word of reproof that he thinks is due from the padre's lips.
“But before it falls the mother interposes with 'They will miss you greatly this evening.' It was rather neatly done, and I think I appreciated it.
“The rite proceeds. The initial ceremony is the repeating of a verse of Scripture all round, and to save my life nothing comes to my mind but the words, 'Remember Lot's wife.' As I cannot see the appropriateness of the quotation, I pass.
“Five minutes before the stroke of twelve, they sing the Scottish paraphrase beginning, 'O God of Bethel.' I do not suppose you ever heard it, but it is a beautiful hymn, and singularly appropriate to the hour. In this I lend assistance with my violin, the tune being the very familiar one of 'Auld Lang Syne,' associated in my mind, however, with occasions somewhat widely diverse from this. I assure you I am thankful that my part is instrumental, for the whole business is getting onto my emotions in a disturbing manner, and especially when I allow my eyes to linger for a moment or two on the face of the lady, the center of the circle, who is deliberately throwing away her fine culture and her altogether beautiful soul upon the Anakim here, and with a beautiful unconsciousness of anything like sacrifice, is now thanking God for the privilege of doing so. I have some moments of rare emotional luxury, those moments that are next to tears.
“Then the padre offers one of those heart-racking prayers of his that, whether they reach anything outside or not, somehow get down into one's vitals, and stir up remorses, and self-condemnings, and longings unutterable. Then they all kiss the mother and wish her a Happy New-Year.
“My boy, my dear boy, I have never known deeper moments than those. And when I went to shake hands with her, she seemed so like a queen receiving homage, that without seeming to feel I was making a fool of myself, I did the Queen Victoria act, and saluted her hand. It is wonderful how great moments discover the lady to you. She must have known how I was feeling, for with a very beautiful grace, she said, 'Let me be your mother for to-night,' and by Jove, she kissed me. I have been kissed before, and have kissed some women in my time, but that is the only kiss I can remember, and s'help me Bob, I'll never kiss another till I kiss my wife.
“And then and there, Maitland, I swore by all that I knew of God, and by everything sacred in life, that I'd quit the past and be worthy of her trust; for the mischief of it is, she will persist in trusting you, puts you on your honor noblesse oblige business, and all that. I think I told you that I might end in being a saint. That dream I have surrendered, but, by the grace of heaven, I'm going to try to be a man. And I am going to play shinny with those boys, and if I can help them to win that match, and the big game of life, I will do it.
“As witness my hand and seal, this first day of January, 18—
“J. C.”
After the New-Year the school filled up with big boys, some of whom had returned with the idea of joining the preparatory class for college, which the minister had persuaded John Craven to organize.
Shinny, however, became the absorbing interest for all the boys, both big and little. This interest was intensified by the rumors that came up from the Front, for it was noised through the Twentieth section that Dan Munro, whose father was a cousin of Archie Munro, the former teacher, had come from Marrintown and taken charge of the Front school, and that, being used to the ice game, and being full of tricks and swift as a bird, he was an exceedingly dangerous man. More than that, he was training his team with his own tricks, and had got back to school some of the old players, among whom were no less renowned personages than Hec Ross and Jimmie “Ben.” Jimmie Ben, to wit, James son of Benjamin McEwen, was more famed for his prowess as a fighter than for his knowledge of the game of shinny, but every one who saw him play said he was “a terror.” Further, it was rumored that there was a chance of them getting for goal Farquhar McRae, “Little Farquhar,” or “Farquhar Bheg” (pronounced “vaick”), as he was euphoniously called, who presumably had once been little, but could no longer claim to be so, seeing that he was six feet, and weighed two hundred pounds.
It behooved the Twentieth team, therefore, to bestir themselves with all diligence, and in this matter Hughie gave no rest either to himself or to any one else likely to be of use in perfecting his team. For Hughie had been unanimously chosen captain, in spite of his protests that the master or one of the big boys should hold that place. But none of the big boys knew the new game as perfectly as Hughie, and the master had absolutely refused, saying, “You beat them once, Hughie, and you can do it again.” And as the days and weeks went on, Hughie fully justified the team's choice of him as captain. He developed a genius for organization, a sureness of judgment, and a tact in management, as well as a skill and speed in play, that won the confidence of every member of his team. He set himself resolutely to banish any remaining relics of the ancient style of play. In the old game every one rushed to hit the ball without regard to direction or distance, and the consequence was, that from end to end of the field a mob of yelling, stick-waving players more or less aimlessly followed in the wake of the ball. But Hughie and the master changed all that, forced the men to play in their positions, training them never to drive wildly forward, but to pass to a man, and to keep their clubs down and their mouths shut.
The striking characteristic of Hughie's own playing was a certain fierceness, amounting almost to fury, so that when he was in the attack he played for every ounce there was in him. His chief weakness lay in his tempestuous temper, which he found difficult to command, but as he worked his men from day to day, and week to week, the responsibility of his position and the magnitude of the issues at stake helped him to a self-control quite remarkable in him.
As the fateful day drew near the whole section was stirred with an intense interest and excitement, in which even the grave and solemn elders shared, and to a greater degree, the minister and his wife.
At length the day, as all days great and small, actually arrived. A big crowd awaited the appearance of “the folks from the Front.” They were expected about two, but it was not till half-past that there was heard in the distance the sound of the bagpipes.
“Here they are! That's Alan the cooper's pipes,” was the cry, and before long, sure enough there appeared Alphonse le Roque driving his French-Canadian team, the joy and pride of his heart, for Alphonse was a born horse-trainer, and had taught his French-Canadians many extraordinary tricks. On the dead gallop he approached the crowd till within a few yards, when, at a sudden command, they threw themselves upon their haunches, and came almost to a standstill. With a crack of his long whip Alphonse gave the command, “Deesplay yousef!” At once his stout little team began to toss their beautiful heads, and broke into a series of prancing curves that would not have shamed a pair of greyhounds. Then, as they drew up to the stopping-point, he gathered up his lines, and with another crack of his whip, cried, “Salute ze ladies!” when, with true equine courtesy, they rose upon their hind legs and gracefully pawed the empty air. Finally, after depositing his load amid the admiring exclamations of the crowd, he touched their tails with the point of his whip, gave a sudden “Whish!” and like hounds from the leash his horses sprang off at full gallop.
One after another the teams from the Front swung round and emptied their loads.
“Man! what a crowd!” said Hughie to Don. “There must be a hundred at least.”
“Yes, and there's Hec Ross and Jimmie Ben,” said Don, “and sure enough, Farquhar Begh. We'll be catching it to-day, whatever,” continued Don, cheerfully.
“Pshaw! we licked as big men before. It isn't size,” said Hughie, with far more confidence than he felt.
It was half an hour before the players were ready to begin. The rules of the game were few and simple. The play was to be one hour each way, with a quarter of an hour rest between. There was to be no tripping, no hitting on the shins when the ball was out of the scrimmage, and all disputes were to be settled by the umpire, who on this occasion was the master of the Sixteenth school.
“He's no good,” grumbled Hughie to his mother, who was even more excited than her boy himself. “He can't play himself, and he's too easy scared.”
“Never mind,” said his mother, brightly; “perhaps he won't have much to do.”
“Much to do! Well, there's Jimmie Ben, and he's an awful fighter, but I'm not going to let him frighten me,” said Hughie, savagely; “and there's Dan Munro, too, they say he's a terror, and Hec Ross. Of course we've got just as good men, but they won't fight. Why, Johnnie 'Big Duncan' and Don, there, are as good as any of them, but they won't fight.”
The mother smiled a little.
“What a pity! But why should they fight? Fighting is not shinny.”
“No, that's what the master says. And he's right enough, too, but it's awful hard when a fellow doesn't play fair, when he trips you up or clubs you on the shins when you're not near the ball. You feel like hitting him back.”
“Yes, but that's the very time to show self-control.”
“I know. And that's what the master says.”
“Of course it is,” went on his mother. “That's what the game is for, to teach the boys to command their tempers. You remember 'he that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city.'
“O, it's all right,” said Hughie, “and easy enough to talk about.”
“What's easy enough to talk about?” asked the master, coming up.
“Taking a city,” said Mrs. Murray, smiling at him.
The master looked puzzled.
“Mother means,” said Hughie, “keeping one's temper in shinny. But I'm telling her it's pretty hard when a fellow clubs you on the shins when you're away from the ball.”
“Yes, of course it's hard,” said the master, “but it's better than being a cad,” which brought a quick flush to Hughie's face, but helped him more than anything else to keep himself in hand that day.
“Can't understand a man,” said the master, “who goes into a game and then quits it to fight. If it's fighting, why fight, but if it's shinny, play the game. Big team against us, eh, captain?” he continued, looking at the Front men, who were taking a preliminary spin upon the ice, “and pretty swift, too.”
“If they play fair, I don't mind,” said Hughie. “I'm not afraid of them; but if they get slugging—”
“Well, if they get slugging,” said the master, “we'll play the game and win, sure.”
“Well, it's time to begin,” said Hughie, and with a good by to his mother he turned away.
“Remember, take a city,” she called out after him.
“All right, muzzie, I'll remember.”
In a few moments the teams were in position opposite each other. The team from the Front made a formidable show in weight and muscle. At the right of the forward line stood the redoubtable Dan Munro, the stocky, tricky, fierce captain of the Front team, and with him three rather small boys in red shirts. The defense consisted of Hec Ross, the much-famed and much-feared Jimmie Ben, while in goal, sure enough, stood the immense and solid bulk of Farquhar Bheg. The center was held by four boys of fair size and weight.
In the Twentieth team the forward line was composed of Jack Ross, Curly Ross's brother, Fusie, Davie Scotch, and Don Cameron. The center was played by Hughie, with three little chaps who made up for their lack of weight by their speed and skill. The defense consisted of Johnnie “Big Duncan,” to wit, John, the son of Big Duncan Campbell, on the left hand, and the master on the right, backed up by Thomas Finch in goal, who much against his will was in the game that day. His heart was heavy within him, for he saw, not the gleaming ice and the crowding players, but “the room” at home, and his mother, with her pale, patient face, sitting in her chair. His father, he knew, would be beside her, and Jessac would be flitting about. “But for all that, she'll have a long day,” he said to himself, for only his loyalty to the school and to Hughie had brought him to the game that day.
When play was called, Hughie, with Fusie immediately behind him, stood facing Dan in the center with one of the little Red Shirts at his back. It was Dan's drop. He made a pass or two, then shot between his legs to a Red Shirt, who, upon receiving, passed far out to Red Shirt number three, who flew along the outer edge and returned swiftly to Dan, now far up the other side. Like the wind Dan sped down the line, dodged Johnnie Big Duncan easily, and shot from the corner, straight, swift, and true, a goal.
“One for the Front!” Eleven shinny-sticks went up in the air, the bagpipes struck up a wild refrain, big Hec Ross and Jimmie Ben danced a huge, unwieldy, but altogether jubilant dance round each other, and then settled down to their places, for it was Hughie's drop.
Hughie took the ball from the umpire and faced Dan with some degree of nervousness, for Dan was heavy and strong, and full of confidence. After a little manoeuvering he dropped the ball between Dan's legs, but Dan, instead of attending to the ball, charged full upon him and laid him flat, while one of the Red Shirts, seizing the ball, flew off with it, supported by a friendly Red Shirt on either side of him, with Dan following hard.
Right through the crowd dodged the Red Shirts till they came up to the Twentieth line of defense, when forth came Johnnie Big Duncan in swift attack. But the little Red Shirt who had the ball, touching it slightly to the right, tangled himself up in Johnnie Big Duncan's legs and sent him sprawling, while Dan swiped the ball to another Red Shirt who had slipped in behind the master, for there was no such foolishness as off-side in that game. Like lightning the Red Shirt caught the ball, and rushing at Thomas, shot furiously at close quarters. Goal number two for the Front!
Again on all sides rose frantic cheers. “The Front! The Front! Murro forever!” Two games had been won, and not a Twentieth man had touched the ball. With furtive, uncertain glances the men of the Twentieth team looked one at the other, and all at their captain, as if seeking explanation of this extraordinary situation.
“Well,” said Hughie, in a loud voice, to the master, and with a careless laugh, though at his heart he was desperate, “they are giving us a little taste of our own medicine.”
The master dropped to buckle his skate, deliberately unwinding the strap, while the umpire allowed time.
“Give me a hand with this, Hughie,” he called, and Hughie skated up to him.
“Well,” said Craven, smiling up into Hughie's face, “that's a good, swift opening, isn't it?”
“Oh, it's terrible,” groaned Hughie. “They're going to lick us off the ice.”
“Well,” replied the master, slowly, “I wouldn't be in a hurry to say so. We have a hundred minutes and more to win in yet. Now, don't you see that their captain is their great card. Suppose you let the ball go for a game or two, and stick to Dan. Trail him, never let him shake you. The rest of us will take care of the game.”
“All right,” said Hughie, “I'll stick to him,” and off he set for the center.
As the loser, Hughie again held the drop. He faced Dan with determination to get that ball out to Fusie, and somehow he felt in his bones that he should succeed in doing this. Without any preliminary he dropped, and knocked the ball toward Fusie.
But this was evidently what Dan expected, for as soon as Hughie made the motion to drop he charged hard upon the waiting Fusie. Hughie, however, had his plan as well, for immediately upon the ball leaving his stick, he threw himself in Dan's way, checking him effectually, and allowing Fusie, with Don and Scotchie following, to get away.
The Front defense, however, was too strong, and the ball came shooting back toward the line of Reds, one of whom, making a short run, passed far out to Dan on the right. But before the latter could get up speed, Hughie was upon him, and ignoring the ball, blocked and bothered and checked him, till one of the Twentieth centers, rushing in, secured it for his side.
“Ha! well done, captain!” came Craven's voice across the ice, and Hughie felt his nerve come back. If he could hold Dan, that deadly Front combination might be broken.
Meantime Don had secured the ball from Craven, and was rushing up his right wing.
“Here you are, Hughie,” he cried, shooting across the Front goal.
Hughie sprang to receive, but before he could shoot Dan was upon him, checking so hard that Hughie was sent sprawling to the ice, while Dan shot away with the ball.
But before he had gone very far Hughie was after him like a whirlwind, making straight for his own goal, so that by the time Dan had arrived at shooting distance, Hughie was again upon him, and while in the very act of steadying himself for his try at the goal, came crashing into him with such fierceness of attack that Dan was flung aside, while Johnnie Big Duncan, capturing the ball, sent it across to the master.
It was the master's first chance for the day. With amazing swiftness and dexterity he threaded the outer edge of the ice, and with a sudden swerve across, avoided the throng that had gathered to oppose him, and then with a careless ease, as if it were a matter of little importance, he dodged in between the heavy Front defense, shot his goal, and skated back coolly to his place.
The Twentieth's moment had come, and both upon the ice and upon the banks the volume and fierceness of the cheering testified to the intensity of the feeling that had been so long pent up.
That game had revealed to Hughie two important facts: the first, that he was faster than Dan in a straight race; and the second, that it would be advisable to feed the master, for it was clearly apparent that there was not his equal upon the ice in dodging.
“That was well done, captain,” said Craven to Hughie, as he was coolly skating back to his position.
“A splendid run, sir,” cried Hughie, in return.
“Oh, the run was easy. It was your check there that did the trick. That's the game,” he continued, lowering his voice. “It's hard on you, though. Can you stand it?”
“Well, I can try for a while,” said Hughie, confidently.
“If you can,” said the master, “we've got them,” and Hughie settled down into the resolve that, cost what it might, he would stick like a leech to Dan.
He imparted his plan to Fusie, adding, “Now, whenever you see me tackle Dan, run in and get the ball. I'm not going to bother about it.”
Half an hour had gone. The score stood two to one in favor of the Front, but the result every one felt to be still uncertain. That last attack of Hughie's, and the master's speedy performance, gave some concern to the men of the Front, and awakened a feeling of confidence in the Twentieth team.
But Dan, wise general that he was, saw the danger, and gave his commands ere he faced off for the new game.
“When that man Craven gets it,” he said to the men of the center, “make straight for the goal. Never mind the ball.”
The wisdom of this order became at once evident, for when in the face-off he secured the ball, Hughie clung so tenaciously to his heels and checked him so effectually, that he was forced to resign it to the Reds, who piercing the Twentieth center, managed to scurry up the ice with the ball between them. But when, met by Craven and Johnnie Big Duncan, they passed across to Dan, Hughie again checked so fiercely that Johnnie Big Duncan secured the ball, passed back to the master, who with another meteoric flash along the edge of the field broke through the Front's defense, and again shot.
It was only Farquhar Bheg's steady coolness that saved the goal. It was a near enough thing, however, to strike a sudden chill to the heart of the Front goal-keeper, and to make Dan realize that something must be done to check these dangerous rushes of Craven.
“Get in behind the defense there, and stay there,” he said to two of his centers, and his tone indicated that his serene confidence in himself and his team was slightly shaken. Hughie's close checking was beginning to chafe him, for his team in their practice had learned to depend unduly upon him.
Noticing Dan's change in the disposition of his men, Hughie moved up two of his centers nearer to the Front defense.
“Get into their way,” he said “and give the master a clear field.”
But this policy only assisted Dan's plan of defense, for the presence of so many players before the Front goal filled up the ice to such an extent that Craven's rushes were impeded by mere numbers.
For some time Dan watched the result of his tactics well satisfied, remaining himself for the time in the background. During one of the pauses, when the ball was out of play, he called one of the little Reds to him.
“Look here,” he said, “you watch this. Right after one of those rushes of Craven's, don't follow him down, but keep up to your position. I'll get the ball to you somehow, and then you'll have a chance to shoot. No use passing to me, for this little son of a gun is on my back like a flea on a dog.” Dan was seriously annoyed.
The little Red passed the word around and patiently waited his chance. Once and again the plan failed, chiefly because Dan could not get the ball out of the scrimmage, but at length, when Hughie had been tempted to rush in with the hope of putting in a shot, the ball slid out of the scrimmage, and Dan, swooping down upon it, passed swiftly to the waiting Red who immediately shot far out to his alert wing, and then rushing down the center and slipping past Johnnie Big Duncan, who had gone forth to meet Dan coming down the right, and the master who was attending to the little Red on the wing, received the ball, and putting in a short, swift shot, scored another goal for the Front, amid a tempest of hurrahings from the team and their supporters.
The game now stood three to one in favor of the Front, and up to the end of the first hour no change was made in this score.
And now there was a scene of the wildest enthusiasm and confusion. The Front people flocked upon the ice and carried off their team to their quarter of the shanty, loading them with congratulations and refreshing them with various drinks.
“Better get your men together, captain,” suggested Craven, and Hughie gathered them into the Twentieth corner of the shanty.
In spite of the adverse score Hughie found his team full of fight. They crowded about him and the master, eager to listen to any explanation of the present defeat that might be offered for their comfort, or to any plans by which the defeat might be turned into victory. Some minutes they spent in excitedly discussing the various games, and in good-naturedly chaffing Thomas Finch for his failure to prevent a score. But Thomas had nothing to say in reply. He had done his best, and he had a feeling that they all knew it. No man was held in higher esteem by the team than the goal-keeper.
“Any plan, captain?” asked the master, after they had talked for some minutes, and all grew quiet.
“What do you think, sir?” said Hughie.
“O, let us hear from you. You're the captain.”
“Well,” said Hughie, slowly, and with deliberate emphasis, “I think we are going to win.” (Yells from all sides.) “At any rate we ought to win, for I think we have the better team.” (More yells.) “What I mean is this, I think we are better in combination play, and I don't think they have a man who can touch the master.”
Enthusiastic exclamations, “That's right!” “Better believe it!” “Horo!”
“But we have a big fight before us. And that Dan Munro's a terror. The only change I can think of is to open out more and fall back from their goal for a little while. And then, if I can hold Dan—”
Cries of “You'll hold him all right!” “You are the lad!”
“Everybody should feed the master. They can't stop him, any of them. But I would say for the first while, anyway, play defense. What do you think, sir?” appealing to the master.
“I call that good tactics. But don't depend too much upon me; if any man has a chance for a run and a shot, let him take it. And don't give up your combination in your forward line. The captain is quite right in seeking to draw them away from their goal. Their defense territory is too full now. Now, what I have noticed is this, they mainly rely upon Dan Munro and upon their three big defense men. For the first fifteen minutes they will make their hardest push. Let us take the captain's advice, fall back a little, and so empty their defense. But on the whole, keep your positions, play to your men, and,” he added, with a smile, “don't get too mad.”
“I guess they will be making some plans, too,” said Thomas Finch, slowly, and everybody laughed.
“That's quite right, Thomas, but we'll give them a chance for the first while to show us what they mean to do.”
At this point the minister came in, looking rather gloomy.
“Well, Mr. Craven, rather doubtful outlook, is it not?”
“O, not too bad, sir,” said the master, cheerfully.
“Three to one. What worse do you want?”
“Well, six to one would be worse,” replied the master. “Besides, their first two games were taken by a kind of fluke. We didn't know their play. You will notice they have taken only one in the last three-quarters of an hour.”
“I doubt they are too big for you,” continued the minister.
“Isn't altogether size that wins in shinny,” said Mr. Craven. “Hughie there isn't a very big man, but he can hold any one of them.”
“Well, I hope you may be right,” said the minister. “I am sorry I have to leave the game to see a sick man up Kenyon way.”
“Sorry you can't stay, sir, to see us win,” said Craven, cheerfully, while Hughie slipped out to see his mother before she went.
“Well, my boy,” said his mother, “you are playing a splendid game, and you are getting better as you go on.”
“Thanks, mother. That's the kind of talk we like,” said Hughie, who had been a little depressed by his father's rather gloomy views. “I'm awfully sorry you can't stay.”
“And so am I, but we must go. But we shall be back in time for supper, and you will ask all the team to come down to celebrate their victory.”
“Good for you, mother! I'll tell them, and I bet they'll play.”
Meantime the team from the Front had been having something of a jollification in their quarters. They were sure of victory, and in spite of their captain's remonstrances had already begun to pass round the bottle in the way of celebration.
“They're having something strong in there,” said little Mac McGregor. “Wish they'd pass some this way.”
“Let them have it,” said Johnnie Big Duncan, whose whole family ever since the revival had taken a total abstinence pledge, although this was looked upon as a very extreme position indeed, by almost all the community. But Big Duncan Campbell had learned by very bitter experience that for him, at least, there was no safety in a moderate use of “God's good creature,” as many of his fellow church-members designated the “mountain dew,” and his sons had loyally backed him up in this attitude.
“Quite, right!” said the master, emphatically. “And if they had any sense they would know that with every drink they are throwing away a big chance of winning.”
“Horo, you fellows!” shouted big Hec Ross across to them, “aren't you going to play any more? Have you got enough of it already?”
“We will not be caring for any more of yon kind,” said Johnnie Big Duncan, good-naturedly, “and we were thinking of giving you a change.”
“Come away and be at it, then,” said Hec, “for we're all getting cold.”
“That's easily cured,” said Dan, as they sallied forth to the ice again, “for I warrant you will not be suffering from the cold in five minutes.”
When the teams took up their positions, it was discovered that Dan had fallen back to the center, and Hughie was at a loss to know how to meet this new disposition of the enemy's force.
“Let them go on,” said the master, with whom Hughie was holding a hurried consultation. “You stick to him, and we'll play defense till they develop their plan.”
The tactics of the Front became immediately apparent upon the drop of the ball, and proved to be what the master had foretold. No sooner had the game begun than the big defense men advanced with the centers to the attack, and when Hughie followed up his plan of sticking closely to Dan Munro and hampering him, he found Jimmie Ben upon him, swiping furiously with his club at his shins, with evident intention of intimidating him, as well as of relieving Dan from his attentions. But if Jimmie Ben thought by his noisy shouting and furious swiping to strike terror to the heart of the Twentieth captain, he entirely misjudged his man; for without seeking to give him back what he received in kind, Hughie played his game with such skill and pluck, that although he was considerably battered about the shins, he was nevertheless able to prevent Dan from making any of his dangerous rushes.
Craven, meantime, if he noticed Hughie's hard case, was so fully occupied with the defense of the goal that he could give no thought to anything else. Shot after shot came in upon Thomas at close range, and so savage and reckless was the charge of the Front that their big defense men, Hec Ross and Jimmie Ben, abandoning their own positions, were foremost in the melee before the Twentieth goal.
For fully fifteen minutes the ball was kept in the Twentieth territory, and only the steady coolness of Craven and Johnnie Big Duncan, backed by Hughie's persistent checking of the Front captain and the magnificent steadiness of Thomas in goal, saved the game.
At length, as the fury of the charge began to expend itself a little, Craven got his chance. The ball had been passed out to Dan upon the left wing of the Front forward line. At once Hughie was upon him, but Jimmie Ben following hard, with a cruel swipe at Hughie's skates, laid him flat, but not until he had succeeded in hindering to some degree Dan's escape with the ball. Before the Front captain could make use of his advantage and get clear away, the master bore down upon him like a whirlwind, hurled him clear off his feet, secured the ball, dashed up the open field, and eluding the two centers, who had been instructed to cover the goal, easily shot between the balsam-trees.
For a few moments the Twentieth men went mad, for they all felt that a crisis had been passed. The failure of the Front in what had evidently been a preconcerted and very general attack was accepted as an omen of victory.
The Front men, on the other hand, were bitterly chagrined. They had come so near it, and yet had failed. Jimmie Ben was especially savage. He came down the ice toward the center, yelling defiance and threats of vengeance. “Come on here! Don't waste time. Let us at them. We'll knock them clear off the ice.”
It was Dan's drop. As he was preparing to face off, the master skated up and asked the umpire for time. At once the crowd gathered round.
“What's the matter?” “What's up?” “What do you want?” came on all sides from the Front team, now thoroughly aroused and thirsting for vengeance.
“Mr. Umpire,” said the master, “I want to call your attention to a bit of foul play that must not be allowed to go on”; and then he described Jimmie Ben's furious attack upon Hughie.
“It was a deliberate trip, as well as a savage swipe at a man's shins when the ball was not near.”
At once Jimmie Ben gave him the lie, and throwing down his club, slammed his cap upon the ice and proceeded to execute a war-dance about it.
For a few moments there was a great uproar, and then the master's voice was heard again addressing the umpire.
“I want to know your ruling upon this, Mr. Umpire”; and somehow his voice commanded a perfect stillness.
“Well,” said the umpire, hesitating, “of course—if a man trips it is foul play, but—I did not see any tripping. And of course—swiping at a man's shins is not allowed, although sometimes—it can't very well be helped in a scrimmage.”
“I merely want to call your attention to it,” said the master. “My understanding of our arrangements, Mr. Munro,” he said, addressing the Front captain, “is that we are here to play shinny. You have come up here, I believe, to win the game by playing shinny, and we are here to prevent you. If you have any other purpose, or if any of your men have any other purpose, we would be glad to know it now, for we entered this game with the intention of playing straight, clean shinny.”
“That's right!” called out Hec Ross; “that's what we're here for.” And his answer was echoed on every side, except by Jimmie Ben, who continued to bluster and offer fight.