“O, shut your gab!” finally said Farquhar Bheg, impatiently. “If you want to fight, wait till after the game is done.”
“Here's your cap, Jimmie,” piped a thin, little voice. “You'll take cold in your head.” It was little French Fusie, holding up Jimmie's cap on the end of his shinny club, and smiling with the utmost good nature, but with infinite impudence, into Jimmie's face.
At once there was a general laugh at Jimmie Ben's expense, who with a growl, seized his cap, and putting it on his head, skated off to his place.
“Now,” said Hughie, calling his men together for a moment, “let us crowd them hard, and let's give the master every chance we can.”
“No,” said the master, “they are waiting for me. Suppose you leave Dan to me for a while. You go up and play your forward combination. They are not paying so much attention to you. Make the attack from your wing.”
At the drop Dan secured the ball, and followed by Fusie, flew up the center with one of the Reds on either hand. Immediately the master crossed to meet him, checked him hard, and gave Fusie a chance, who, seizing the ball, passed far up to Hughie on the right.
Immediately the Twentieth forward line rushed, and by a beautiful hit of combined play, brought the ball directly before the Front goal, when Don, holding it for a moment till Hughie charged in upon Farquhar Bheg, shot, and scored.
The result of their combination at once inspired the Twentieth team with fresh confidence, and proved most disconcerting to their opponents.
“That's the game, boys,” said the master, delightedly. “Keep your heads, and play your positions.” And so well did the forward line respond that for the next ten minutes the game was reduced to a series of attacks upon the Front goal, and had it not been for the dashing play of their captain and the heavy checking of the Front defense, the result would have been most disastrous to them.
Meantime, the Twentieth supporters, lined along either edge, became more and more vociferous as they began to see that their men were getting the game well into their own hands. That steady, cool, systematic play of man to man was something quite new to those accustomed to the old style of game, and aroused the greatest enthusiasm.
Gradually the Front were forced to fall back into their territory, and to play upon the defensive, while the master and Johnnie Big Duncan, moving up toward the center, kept their forward line so strongly supported, and checked so effectually any attempts to break through, that thick and fast the shots fell upon the enemy's goal.
There remained only fifteen minutes to play. The hard pace was beginning to tell upon the big men, and the inevitable reaction following their unwise “celebrating” began to show itself in their stale and spiritless play. On the other hand, the Twentieth were as fresh as ever, and pressed the game with greater spirit every moment.
“Play out toward the side,” urged Dan, despairing of victory, but determined to avert defeat, and at every opportunity the ball was knocked out of play. But like wolves the Twentieth forwards were upon the ball, striving to keep it in play, and steadily forcing it toward the enemy's goal.
Dan became desperate. He was wet with perspiration, and his breath was coming in hard gasps. He looked at his team. The little Reds were fit enough, but the others were jaded and pumped out. Behind him stood Jimmie Ben, savage, wet, and weary.
At one of the pauses, when the ball was out of play, Dan dropped on his knee.
“Hold on there a minute,” he cried; “I want to fix this skate of mine.”
Very deliberately he removed his strap, readjusted his skate, and began slowly to set the strap in place again.
“They want a rest, I guess. Better take off the time, umpire,” sang out Fusie, dancing as lively as a cricket round Jimmie Ben, who looked as if he would like to devour him bodily.
“Shut up, Fusie!” said Hughie. “We've got all the time we need.”
“You have, eh?” said Jimmie Ben, savagely.
“Yes,” said Hughie, in sudden anger, for he had not forgotten Jimmie Ben's cruel swipe. “We don't need any more time than we've got, and we don't need to play any dirty tricks, either. We're going to beat you. We've got you beaten now.”
“Blank your impudent face! Wait you! I'll show you!” said Jimmie Ben.
“You can't scare me, Jimmie Ben,” said Hughie, white with rage. “You tried your best and you couldn't do it.”
“Play the game, Hughie,” said the master, in a low tone, skating round him, while Hec Ross said, good-naturedly, “Shut up Jimmie Ben. You'll need all your wind for your heels,” at which all but Jimmie Ben laughed.
For a moment Dan drew his men together.
“Our only chance,” he said, “is in a rush. Now, I want every man to make for that goal. Never mind the ball. I'll get the ball there. And then you, Jimmie Ben, and a couple of you centers, make right back here on guard.”
“They're going to rush,” said Hughie to his team. “Don't all go back. Centers fall back with me. You forwards keep up.”
At the drop Dan secured the ball, and in a moment the Front rush came. With a simultaneous yell the whole ten men came roaring down the ice, waving their clubs and flinging aside their lightweight opponents. It was a dangerous moment, but with a cry of “All steady, boys!” Hughie threw himself right into Dan's way. But just for such a chance Jimmie Ben was watching, and rushing upon Hughie, caught him fairly with his shoulder and hurled him to the ice, while the attacking line swept over him.
For a single moment Hughie lay dazed, but before any one could offer help he rose slowly, and after a few deep breaths, set off for the scrimmage.
There was a wild five minutes. Eighteen or twenty men were massed in front of the Twentieth goal, striking, shoving, yelling, the solid weight of the Front defense forcing the ball ever nearer the goal. In the center of the mass were Craven, Johnnie Big Duncan, and Don fighting every inch.
For a few moments Hughie hovered behind his goal, his heart full of black rage, waiting his chance. At length he saw an opening. Jimmie Ben, slashing heavily, regardless of injury to himself or any others, had edged the ball toward the Twentieth left. Taking a short run, Hughie, reckless of consequences, launched himself head first into Jimmie Ben's stomach, swiping viciously at the same time at the ball. For a moment Jimmie Ben was flung back, and but for Johnnie Big Duncan would have fallen, but before he could regain his feet, the ball was set free of the scrimmage and away. Fusie, rushing in, had snapped it up and had gone scuttling down the ice, followed by Hughie and the master.
Before Fusie had got much past center, Dan, who had been playing in the rear of the scrimmage, overtook him, and with a fierce body check upset the little Frenchman and secured the ball. Wheeling, he saw both Hughie and Craven bearing down swiftly upon him.
“Rush for the goal!” he shouted to Jimmie Ben, who was following Hughie hard. Jimmie Ben hesitated.
“Back to your defense!” yelled Dan, cutting across and trying to escape between Hughie and Craven.
It was in vain. Both of the Twentieth men fell upon him, and the master, snatching the ball, sped like lightning down the ice.
The crowd went wild.
“Get back! Get back there!” screamed Hughie to the mob crowding in upon the ice. “Give us room! Give us a show!”
At this moment Craven, cornered by Hec Ross and two of the Red Shirts, with Dan hard upon his heels, passed clear across the ice to Hughie. With a swift turn Hughie caught the ball, dodged Jimmie Ben's fierce spring at him, and shot. But even as he shot, Jimmie Ben, recovering his balance, reached him and struck a hard, swinging blow upon his ankle. There was a sharp crack, and Hughie fell to the ice. The ball went wide.
“Time, there, umpire!” cried the master, falling on his knees beside Hughie. “Are you hurt, Hughie?” he asked, eagerly. “What is it, my boy?”
“Oh, master, it's broken, but don't stop. Don't let them stop. We must win this game. We've only a few minutes. Take me back to goal and send Thomas out.”
The eager, hurried whisper, the intense appeal in the white face and dark eyes, made the master hesitate in his emphatic refusal.
“You can't—”
“Oh, don't stop! Don't stop it for me,” cried Hughie, gripping the master's arm. “Help me up and take me back.”
The master swore a fierce oath.
“We'll do it, my boy. You're a trump. Here, Don,” he called aloud, “we'll let Hughie keep goal for a little,” and they ran Hughie back to the goal on one skate.
“You go out, Thomas,” gasped Hughie. “Don't talk. We've only five minutes.”
“They have broken his leg,” said the master, with a sob in his voice.
“Nothing wrong, I hope,” said Dan, skating up.
“No; play the game,” said the master, fiercely. His black eyes were burning with a deep, red glow.
“Is it hurting much?” asked Thomas, lingering about Hughie.
“Oh, you just bet! But don't wait. Go on! Go on down! You've got to get this game!”
Thomas glanced at the foot hanging limp, and then at the white but resolute face. Then saying with slow, savage emphasis, “The brute beast! As sure as death I'll do for him,” he skated off to join the forward line.
It was the Front knock-off from goal. There was no plan of attack, but the Twentieth team, looking upon the faces of the master and Thomas, needed no words of command.
The final round was shot, short, sharp, fierce. A long drive from Farquhar Bheg sent the ball far up into the Twentieth territory. It was a bad play, for it gave Craven and Thomas their chance.
“Follow me close, Thomas,” cried the master, meeting the ball and setting off like a whirlwind.
Past the little Reds, through the centers, and into the defense line he flashed, followed hard by Thomas. In vain Hec Ross tried to check, Craven was past him like the wind. There remained only Dan and Jimmie Ben. A few swift strides, and the master was almost within reach of Dan's club. With a touch of the ball to Thomas he charged into his waiting foe, flung him aside as he might a child, and swept on.
“Take the man, Thomas,” he cried, and Thomas, gathering himself up in two short, quick strikes, dashed hard upon Jimmie Ben, and hurled him crashing to the ice.
“Take that, you brute, you!” he said, and followed after Craven.
Only Farquhar Bheg was left.
“Take no chances,” cried Craven again. “Come on!” and both of them sweeping in upon the goal-keeper, lifted him clear through the goal and carried the ball with them.
“Time!” called the umpire. The great game was won.
Then, before the crowd had realized what had happened, and before they could pour in upon the ice, Craven skated back toward Jimmie Ben.
“The game is over,” he said, in a low, fierce tone. “You cowardly blackguard, you weren't afraid to hit a boy, now stand up to a man, if you dare.”
Jimmie Ben was no coward. Dropping his club he came eagerly forward, but no sooner had he got well ready than Craven struck him fair in the face, and before he could fall, caught him with a straight, swift blow on the chin, and lifting him clear off his skates, landed him back on his head and shoulders on the ice, where he lay with his toes quivering.
“Serve him right,” said Hec Ross.
There was no more of it. The Twentieth crowds went wild with joy and rage, for their great game was won, and the news of what had befallen their captain had got round.
“He took his city, though, Mrs. Murray,” said the master, after the great supper in the manse that evening, as Hughie lay upon the sofa, pale, suffering, but happy. “And not only one, but a whole continent of them, and,” he added, “the game as well.”
With sudden tears and a little break in her voice, the mother said, looking at her boy, “It was worth while taking the city, but I fear the game cost too much.”
“Oh, pshaw, mother,” said Hughie, “it's only one bone, and I tell you that final round was worth a leg.”
“How many did you say, Craven, of those Glengarry men of yours?” Professor Gray was catechizing his nephew.
“Ten of them, sir, besides the minister's son, who is going to take the full university course.”
“And all of them bound for the ministry?”
“So they say. And judging by the way they take life, and the way, for instance, they play shinny, I have a notion they will see it through.”
“They come of a race that sees things through,” answered the professor. “And this is the result of this Zion Hill Academy I have been hearing so much about?”
“Well, sir, they put in a good year's work, I must say.”
“You might have done worse, sir. Indeed, you deserve great credit, sir.”
“I? Not a bit. I simply showed them what to do and how to do it. But there's a woman up there that the world ought to know about. For love of her—”
“Oh, the world!” snorted the professor. “The world, sir! The Lord deliver us! It might do the world some good, I grant.”
“It is for love of her these men are in for the ministry.”
“You are wrong, sir. That is not their motive.”
“No, perhaps it is not. It would be unfair to say so, but yet she—”
“I know, sir. I know, sir. Bless my soul, sir. I know her. I knew her before you were born. But—yes, yes—” the professor spoke as if to himself—“for love of her men would attempt great things. You have these names, Craven? Ah! Alexander Stewart, Donald Cameron, Thomas Finch—Finch, let me see—ah, yes, Finch. His mother died after a long illness. Yes, I remember. A very sad case, a very sad case, indeed.”
“And yet not so sad, sir,” put in Craven. “At any rate, it did not seem so at the time. That night it seemed anything but sad. It was wonderful.”
The professor laid down his list and sat back in his chair.
“Go on, sir,” he said, gazing curiously at Craven. “I have heard a little about it. Let me see, it was the night of the great match, was it not?”
“Did you know about that? Who told you about the match, sir?”
“I hear a great many things, and in curious ways. But go on, sir, go on.”
Craven sat silent, and from the look in his eyes his thoughts were far away.
“Well, sir, it's a thing I have never spoken about. It seems to me, if I may say so, something quite too sacred to speak of lightly.”
Again Craven paused, while the professor waited.
“It was Hughie sent me there. There was a jubilation supper at the manse, you understand. Thomas Finch, the goal-keeper, you know—magnificent fellow, too—was not at the supper. A messenger had come for him, saying that his mother had taken a bad turn. Hughie was much disappointed, and they were all evidently anxious. I offered to drive over and inquire, and of course the minister's wife, though she had been on the go all day long, must needs go with me. I can never forget that night. I suppose you have noticed, sir, there are times when one is more sensitive to impressions from one's surroundings than others. There are times with me, too, when I seem to have a very vital kinship with nature. At any rate, during that drive nature seemed to get close to me. The dark, still forest, the crisp air, the frost sparkling in the starlight on the trees—it all seemed to be part of me. I fear I am not explaining myself.”
Craven paused again, and his eyes began to glow. The professor still waited.
“When we reached the house we found them waiting for death. The minister's wife went in, I waited in the kitchen. By and by Billy Jack, that's her eldest son, you know, came out. 'She is asking for you,' he said, and I went in. I had often seen her before, and I rather think she liked me. You see, I had been able to help Thomas along pretty well, both in school and with his night work, and she was grateful for what I had done, absurdly grateful when one considers how little it was. I had seen death before, and it had always been ghastly, but there was nothing ghastly in death that night. The whole scene is before me now, I suppose always will be.”
His dead, black eyes were beginning to show their deep, red fire.
The professor looked at him for a moment or two, and then said, “Proceed, if you please,” and Craven drew a long breath, as if recalling himself, and went on.
“The old man was there at one side, with his gray head down on the bed, his little girl kneeling beside him with her arm round his neck, opposite him the minister's wife, her face calm and steady, Billy Jack standing at the foot of the bed—he and little Jessac the only ones in the room who were weeping—and there at the head, Thomas, supporting his mother, now and then moistening her lips and giving her sips of stimulant, and so quick and steady, gentle as a woman, and smiling through it all. I could hardly believe it was the same big fellow who three hours before had carried the ball through the Front defense. I tell you, sir, it was wonderful.
“There was no fuss or hysterical nonsense in that room. The mother lay there quite peaceful, pain all gone—and she had had enough of it in her day. She was quite a beautiful woman, too, in a way. Fine eyes, remarkable eyes, splendidly firm mouth, showing great nerve, I should say. All her life, I understand, she lived for others, and even now her thought was not of herself. When I came in she opened her eyes. They were like stars, actually shining, and her smile was like the sudden breaking of light through a cloud. She put out her hand for mine, and said—and I value these words, sir—'Mr. Craven, I give you a mither's thanks and a mither's blessing for a' you have done for ma laddie.' She was Lowland Scotch, you know. My voice went all to pieces. I tried to say it was nothing, but stuck. Thomas helped me out, and without a shake or quiver in his voice, he answered for me.
“'Yes, indeed, mother, we'll not forget it.'
“'And perhaps you can help him a bit still. He will be needing it,' she added.
“I assure you, sir, that quiet steadiness of Thomas and herself braced me up, and I was able to make my promise. And then she said, with a look that somehow reminded me of the deep, starlit night outside, through which I had just come, 'And you, Mr. Craven, you will give your life to God?'
“Again my voice failed me. It was so unexpected, and quite overwhelming. Once more Thomas answered for me.
“'Yes, mother, he will, sure,' and she seemed to take it as my promise, for she smiled again at me, and closed her eyes.
“I had read of triumphant death-bed scenes, and all that before, without taking much stock in them, but believe me, sir, that room was full of glory. The very faces of those people, it seemed to me, were alight. It may be imagination, but even now, as I think of it, it seems real. There were no farewells, no wailing, and at the very last, not even tears. Thomas, who had nursed her for more than a year, still supported her, the smile on his face to the end. And the end”—Craven's voice grew unsteady—“it is difficult to speak of. The minister's wife repeated the words about the house with many mansions, and those about the valley of the shadow, and said a little prayer, and then we all waited for the end—for myself, I confess with considerable fear and anxiety. I had no need to fear. After a long silence she sat up straight, and in her Scotch tongue, she said, with a kind of amazed joy in her tone, 'Ma fayther! Ma fayther! I am here.' Then she settled herself back in her son's arms, drew a deep breath, and was still. All through the night and next day the glory lingered round me. I went about as in a strange world. I am afraid you will be thinking me foolish, sir.”
The stern old professor was openly wiping his eyes. He seemed quite unable to find his voice. At length he took up the list again, and began to read it mechanically.
“What! What's this?” he said, suddenly, pointing to a name on the list.
“That, sir, is John Craven.”
“Do you mean that you, too—”
“Yes, I mean it, if you think I am fit.”
“Fit, Jack, my boy! None of us are fit. But what—how did this come?” The professor blew his nose like a trumpet.
“That I can hardly tell myself,” said Craven, with a kind of wonder in his voice; “but at any rate it is the result of my Glengarry School Days.”