chairs"They had gathered chairs of all descriptions from all over the school...."
"They had gathered chairs of all descriptions from all over the school...."
They went to dinner feeling rather more encouraged and found that Sid had returned with good tidings. Hammond had learned of the entertainment several days before and had been waiting eagerly for an invitation to attend. And every fellow was coming, declared Sid. Roy, who had taken a flying trip to the town for red and blue cheesecloth, reported excellent progress on the last of the costumes. And Post, who couldn't eat any dinner because he had been filling himself up all day with cough syrup and licorice lozenges, thought he might be able to sing, after all. The last rehearsal was at three o'clock, and after it was over Jack shook his head dismally.
"I never saw such a bum show in my life," he declared gloomily. "And talk about singing! Say, I wonder if we can bribe Post to stay away to-night?"
"Why, I thought everything went beautifully!" declared Harry. "You wait until to-night; they'll do a lot better."
"The chorus work was all right," said Chub. "And the tableaux were simply swell. I do wish, though, that Bacon wouldn't look as though he was going to die every minute!"
"But those jokes!" groaned Jack.
"Oh, never mind; I've heard lots worse ones," answered Roy cheerfully.
"Not outside of a Sunday newspaper supplement, I'll bet," said Jack. "That one about Mr. Cobb and Miss Webb, and falling in love with her the first time he 'spider' is the limit. I heard that when I was three years old!"
"That's all right; folks like 'em old at a minstrel show," answered Chub. "Old wine to drink, old books to read, old jokes to—"
"To cry over," prompted Jack. "All right. No use in cutting up rough now. We'll have to make the best of a bad show. Just so long as Harris and Kirby don't start to using their fists on each other during their turn I suppose I can't kick."
"Well, let's go to supper," said Roy.
THE ENTERTAINMENT AND HOW IT ENDED
Entertainment for the Benefit of the Ferry Hill School Hockey Association in the Gymnasium, Wednesday Evening, December 22d.
program
Part I.
FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY!
The World-Famous Aggregation of Senegambian Entertainers known as the Darktown Minstrels, just returned from their Triumphant Tour of Europe, Asia, Africa and New Jersey, where they delighted Royalty and barely escaped with their Lives!
ONE NIGHT ONLY!! READ THE NAMES!!
To be followed by the First Appearance in this part of the Country of Professor Carlos Cole, Prince of Prestidigitators, in Astounding Card Tricks, Marvellous Feats of Sleight-of-Hand and Appalling Wonders of White and Black Magic never before seen on any stage and not likely to be again! (The Management earnestly requests Members of the Audience not to loan the Professor either money or hats. The Management will not be Responsible for the Return of such Articles.)
The Whole to Terminate in a Beautiful and Fantastic Revelry of Song and Mirth entitled:
"Christmas Eve on the Plantation!"
INTERMISSION.
Part II.
COLLEGE TABLEAUX.
ENSEMBLE.
Song: "The School on the Hill."
The Audience will please join in the singing.
Automobiles and launches may be ordered for 10:45. There's no harm in ordering.The audience is earnestly requested not to throw garden truck or hennery produce. Bricks may be obtained from the Gentlemanly Ushers.Attendants will report promptly to the Management any inattention on the part of the Audience.Persons unable to resist weeping at the jokes will please step outside. Rain checks may be had at the door.
Automobiles and launches may be ordered for 10:45. There's no harm in ordering.
The audience is earnestly requested not to throw garden truck or hennery produce. Bricks may be obtained from the Gentlemanly Ushers.
Attendants will report promptly to the Management any inattention on the part of the Audience.
Persons unable to resist weeping at the jokes will please step outside. Rain checks may be had at the door.
A MERRY CHRISTMAS!
The public acted very considerately that evening. Whether the report had got around that Ferry Hill needed sixty dollars for her hockey team I can't say, but it's a fact that when the curtain went up—only twenty minutes late!—there were exactly one hundred and twenty-eight persons in the gymnasium who had paid for admission, and as the price was fifty cents apiece the one hundred and twenty-eight persons meant just sixty-four dollars in the cigar box on the table by the door! Hammond turned out in force, almost sixty of her boys attending; Miss Cutler's School for Young Ladies was well represented by twenty-two of Harry's schoolmates under the protection of Miss Letitia Cutler herself; the village contributed generously; while as for Ferry Hill, every youth not holding an official position of some sort—and there were few that didn't—was on hand, even Horace and Otto being unable to resist the promises of the programme, while the culinary and dormitory force, as well as John, the gardener and general factotum, were huddled about the door. Down in the second row sat Doctor and Mrs. Emery and some friends from the village. Walker and Fernald made most presentable ushers, and, as their duties consisted principally of supplying programmes and answering questions, they did finely.
I'm not going to attempt a description of the first part of that entertainment. In the first place it was beyond description, far too stupendous and awe-inspiring for my pen to do justice to. From the time the curtain rose—as correctly as though it had never misbehaved!—revealing the World Famous Aggregation of Senegambian Entertainers until—well, until it fell hurriedly two hours later, everything went beautifully. Of course there were little misadventures, but such are expected and only add to the hilarity of an amateur show. When Chub's tambourine flew whirling out of his hand and fell into Mrs. Emery's lap it seemed an excellent joke. When Warren fell over a chair and landed on all fours in front of the descending curtain, everybody applauded uproariously. When, in the plantation sketch, the roof of the log cabin fell in because Post had thoughtlessly leaned against the door-frame, and Sid, in the role of Aunt Dinah, floundered terrifiedly out through the window with a spirited rending of feminine garments, the audience rocked in merriment.
show"Chub's tambourine flew whirling out of his hands."
"Chub's tambourine flew whirling out of his hands."
The orchestra, a Silver Cove combination of piano, flute and violin, did wonderfully considering the fact that it had attended but one rehearsal. The solos, especially Mr. Cobb's and Tom Forrest's, were cordially received. Harris and Kirby buried the hatchet temporarily and got through "Shine, Silv'ry Star" most brilliantly and had to give an encore. Mr. Cobb and Mr. Buckman did a ludicrous negro song which brought the house down, though not in the same way as Post had. The chorus work was good and the jokes took just as well as though they had been all fresh and new. Some few of them were. When Post asked Rogers if he knew what the principal article of diet was at the school across the river, and when he was finally prevailed on to dispel the interlocutor's ignorance and replied "Hammond eggs," the visitors from Hammond shrieked their appreciation. When Harris explained that Ferry Hill was the brightest school in the country because the students had their wits sharpened by Emery, the Doctor chuckled most appreciatively. Even the punning joke to which Jack Rogers had taken exception and which related the matrimonial adventures of Mr. Cobb and a fictitious Miss Webb went well.
Chub's imitations were distinctly clever, that of Mr. Buckman coaching the crew throwing the Ferry Hill portion of the assemblage, at least, into convulsions. Sid "did his worst," according to promise, and made a hit more by his earnest desire to please than by any musical results obtained from his banjo. Mr. Cobb's monologues were screamingly funny and he had hard work getting away from the audience. Professor Carlos Cole, better known as Charlie Cole of the Middle Class, didn't quite make good all the promises of the programme, but executed some clever tricks of palming and even managed, with some difficulty, to extract one of Harry's pigeons out of an empty bottle—with the aid of a voluminous handkerchief which fluttered suspiciously when produced. The sketch entitled "Christmas Eve on the Plantation" went better than anyone dared hope, principally, perhaps, for the reason that about everybody forgot his lines and did what and how he pleased. The first half came to a triumphant end with the entire company of entertainers filling the little stage and vigorously proclaiming that they were "going to live, anyhow, until they died."
During the intermission black-faced youths emerged from the dressing-room under the balcony and visited friends in the audience and the orchestra performed its "Medley of College Airs." The programme's announcement of College Tableaux had whetted the audience's curiosity, and when the hall darkened, the bell tinkled and the curtain—still on its good behaviour—rolled noiselessly up, there was a general craning forward of heads.
The painted back drop had given way to a curtain of white cloth. In front of it stood a large oblong frame of wood covered with gilt paper. Behind the latter, like a picture in its frame, stood Bacon on a little white-draped dais impersonating a Yale oarsman. His costume was a blue sleeveless jersey with a white Y stitched on it, white trunks, turned-down socks and rowing shoes. In his right hand he supported an oar with a blue blade. A gas pipe had been run around the inner side of the frame and the dozens of little jets threw a brilliant light on the motionless figure. The applause was instant and hearty. Bacon kept the pose for a minute while the orchestra played "Boola," and then the curtain fell again. Presently it went up to reveal Roy in his crimson sweater, moleskin trousers, crimson stockings and tan shoes. A white H adorned the front of the sweater and under his arm was a football. Again the applause, quite as hearty as before, while the strains of "Up the Street" came from the orchestra.
Chub, who came next, represented a Princeton baseball player, striped stockings on his sturdy legs, gray shirt over his black jersey, a gray cap set rakishly over his smiling face and a mask and ball under his arm. The applause seemed to be more a tribute to Chub, the captain of the Ferry Hill Nine, than to the picture he made or the college he represented. After the music of "Old Nassau" had ceased the curtain fell once more. Then followed Warren as a Cornell oarsman, Gallup as a Columbia tennis player and Tom Forrest, with a sixteen-pound hammer behind him, poised for a throw. Forrest wore Dartmouth's colors and made an unmistakable hit.
But the audience was agog for the next picture. Harry had devised the tableaux and had insisted upon being allowed to appear as Vassar. And although to Jack and Chub and Roy a girl's college had seemed out of place on the programme, yet they were too grateful to Harry for her assistance to think of refusing her. And when the curtain rolled up for the last time they were all very glad they hadn't. For Harry was the success of the evening.
She was standing two-thirds-face to the audience, a black mortar-board cap on her head, a flowing black gown reaching to her feet and a book under her arm. The pose was grace itself. But the crowning glory of the picture was Harry's hair. She had coiled it at the back of her little head, thereby adding several years to her apparent age, and the intense light of the sizzling gas-jets made it glow and shimmer like red gold. A very bright, happy and demure-looking Vassar student she made, and a pretty one, too. Roy, watching from the wings, could hardly believe that the smiling, grown-up young lady in front of him was the red-haired little minx who had "sassed" him so sharply in the stable yard that first day of their acquaintance!
The applause grew and grew; at the back of the hall John, the gardener, had forgotten his awe of the surroundings and was "hurrahing" loudly, egged on by the admiring women servants. And then suddenly the applause gave place to cries of alarm. Persons in the front row sprang to their feet. Those behind them pushed back their chairs and, without knowing the cause, became imbued with the panic of those in front. Someone cried "Fire!" and instantly the place was in an uproar.
tableaux"It was Roy who dashed across the stage."
"It was Roy who dashed across the stage."
But those in the wings had seen as quickly as those in the audience, and it was Roy who dashed across the stage, picked Harry bodily from the dais, laid her down and crushed the flames out of her black gown with his hands before scarcely any of the others had recovered from their momentary panic. Harry, white-faced but silent through it all, was helped unharmed to her feet and the curtain came down with a rush. It had been "a narrow squeak," as Chub excitedly termed it, but, save for a fright, Harry was none the worse for the happening. But the same could not be said for her black gown. It had fluttered against one of the gas-jets, caught fire and had been burned away for a space of several feet up one side. Doctor and Mrs. Emery joined Roy, Mr. Cobb and Jack as they conducted Harry to the dressing-room and they were both embarrassingly profuse in their praise of Roy's presence of mind. The Doctor insisted on shaking hands and it was then that the discovery was made that while the rescued had escaped injury the rescuer had not. Both of Roy's hands were pretty badly scorched, although Roy tried to convince them that they weren't. Mr. Cobb sent for oil and bandages and Harry, in order to reassure the audience, was led before the curtain, where she received applause more hearty than ever. The incident had effectually ended the evening's performance and the singing of the school song was omitted. When Harry came back to the dressing-room, still pale and rather sober, she walked over to Roy who was seated awaiting the "first aid to the injured," and, to his surprise, leaned impulsively over and kissed his cheek.
"Please, Roy," she whispered, "thank you very,verymuch! And—and I'm sorry I was so low-down mean!"
A DEFEAT, A VICTORY AND A CHALLENGE
It's a peculiar fact that no matter how glad a chap may be to get home he's equally delighted to get back to school. At least, that's the way with most fellows, and it was the way with Roy. Vacation seemed over almost before it had begun, and then, one bright, snowy January morning when the new year was but a few days old, he woke up to find himself snuggled under the yellow comforter that adorned his bed in the Senior Dormitory. And before he could gather courage to slip even one foot out into the cold there was a rush on the stairs and Chub, all blue pajamas and grins, was on him like a small tornado, had thrown the coverings in all directions and had dragged him out on to the unsympathetic floor. Jack bore down to see justice done and Tom Forrest, holding a bath towel about him, paused on his way back from the wash-room to watch and give encouragement. Roy and Chub had it out on the next bed and Chub eventually begged for mercy from beneath a feather pillow. And subsequently they dashed downstairs together and reached the dining room just on the nick of time, feeling like hungry colts.
Yes, it was mighty good to be back again, even though mid-winter exams were due in a few days. Roy had missed Chub and Jack and the others, and even his brother's breathless narrative of the Yale-Harvard game from the point of view of a Crimson right-tackle who had become next year's captain hadn't seemed half so wonderful as it would have a year before. Chub's badly-spelled letter regarding the outlook for the Ferry Hill Hockey Team had been much more interesting.
The rink was flooded that afternoon, a round two dozen boys working with a will at the pump which drew water from the river and ran it through an iron pipe into the enclosure. It was a cold day—the thermometer read eight degrees above at four o'clock—and although the river was frozen only along the banks and out near Fox Island, there was no doubt but that they would have a nice sheet of ice for the morrow's practice. Chub borrowed a thermometer from the kitchen window—without telling anyone about it—and hung it outside his own casement. Sid solemnly affirmed that Chub was leaning out of the window reading the thermometer by moonlight every time he woke up. And as Chub observed scathingly that Sid was never known to wake up from the time he went to sleep until he was pulled on to the floor in the morning, Sid's statement doubtless held some truth. Chub was at Roy's bedside the next morning long before the rising bell had rung. As he had no business there at that time, he moved and spoke very cautiously.
"It's four below, Roy!" he whispered.
"Huh?" asked Roy sleepily.
"It's four below zero, you lazy chump!"
"Who? What?"
"The thermometer! What did you think I was talking about?"
"Thought you might mean the dormitory," answered Roy, now thoroughly awake, drawing the bed clothes closer about him and shivering.
"Pshaw, you're not cold! Come on; get up."
"Bell rung?"
"No, but it will in a minute."
"Then you'd better sneak out of here before Cobb sees you. There's Ferris got his eye on you now."
"If he tells on me I'll break his neck," answered Chub from between chattering teeth. "What time is practice?"
"Four o'clock."
"All right. Guess I'll sneak back. I'm going to play cover-point, eh?"
"Yes, I guess so—as long as you last."
Then he dived under the clothes for protection.
That afternoon the hockey team got down to real business. It was rather confused business, to be sure, for many of the two dozen candidates had never played the game before and some few of them were none too sure on their feet, or, rather, skates. But Mr. Cobb was on hand, and Roy explained and instructed too, and soon some order grew out of chaos.
hockeyRoy giving instruction in hockey.
Roy giving instruction in hockey.
After that every week day afternoon saw the candidates at work on the rink, save once or twice when thaws softened the ice. Hockey took hold of the school with a vim, and those who were not entitled to use the rink secured sticks and pucks and went at it on the river. At the end of two weeks of practice a first and a second team had been chosen and games between them occurred daily. Three candidates dropped out; the others, not of first choice, were retained as substitutes and always got into the games for a short while at least. Meanwhile Roy's temporary captaincy had been made permanent by unanimous vote, Jack had been elected manager and Chub treasurer. A challenge was drawn up and delivered to Hammond Academy, was accepted and three games were arranged to settle the ice hockey supremacy. The first was scheduled for January 20th, and although a thaw had set in the evening before and made the skating surface far from perfect, the contest came off at three o'clock on the date set.
The team which started the game for Ferry Hill was made up of Rogers, right end, Warren, right center, Kirby, left center, Porter, left end, Eaton, cover-point, Bacon, point, Hadden, goal. But almost all of the substitutes had their chances before the game was over. Roy, Warren and Chub played finely, and Hadden, considering the fact that he had never before played goal in a hockey game, did excellent work and stopped some difficult shots. But Hammond's players were all experienced and the result was not long in doubt. Ferry Hill really deserved commendation for keeping Hammond's score down to eight and for getting two goals herself, the latter in the last period of play. There were many faults to correct and that game served an excellent purpose if it did no more than show up the weak places on the Ferry Hill team. The stick-work was still pretty ragged, the forwards let their over-eagerness get them into many an off-side play, they failed to follow up as they should have and Bacon, at point, continually allowed himself to be drawn out of his position. But every fellow had played hard and the faults were all such as could be largely remedied in subsequent practice.
A few days later a challenge to play a game with Prentice Military Academy on the latter's rink came by telephone and Jack accepted. The team, attended by fully two-thirds of the school, journeyed down to Prentice the following Saturday afternoon and won its first game by a score of 6 to 4. This sounds better than it really was, for Prentice couldn't boast of a very strong team. However, the result of the game encouraged Ferry Hill, and the fellows went to work again on Monday afternoon with redoubled vigor. Jack Rogers, who had not been playing as well as he was capable of, found himself about this time and developed rapidly into a hard, fast forward, passing brilliantly and making an excellent team-mate for Warren, who, next to Roy, was the best member of the team. By the time the second Hammond game arrived many of the more glaring faults had been eliminated. Bacon had fallen back to substitute, his place at point having been won by Gallup.
Ferry Hill crossed to Hammond that afternoon for the second game of the series resolved to even things up by winning one contest at least of the three. And, in spite of the fact that she was on unfamiliar ice, and that the cheers of Ferry Hill's handful of supporters were quite drowned out by the throng of Hammondites, she succeeded. The first half ended with the score 3 to 1 in favor of the Cherry and Black, after Ferry Hill had played on the defensive almost every minute of the time. But in the last period Ferry Hill took a brace, got the puck away from her opponent a few minutes after play began and scored her second goal. She followed this less than two minutes later with a third, so tying the score. After that play was fast and furious. Ferry Hill forced it hard. The next try-at-goal was by Hammond, and although it looked as though the puck entered the cage and bounded out the goal was not allowed. Hammond had a good deal to say about that and play came to a standstill for several minutes. But the referee, a gentleman of their own choosing, held to his decision. But even had that goal been awarded to Hammond the game would still have gone to Ferry Hill, for Jack Rogers and Warren, playing together like veterans, took the puck down the rink when play was resumed and shot a goal that couldn't be questioned. That goal was Jack's second. Hammond made it interesting for the Brown and White after that, making try after try, but Hadden stopped everything that reached him. With only a very few minutes to play Kirby stole the rubber from a Hammond forward, passed it to Roy across the rink and followed up in time to receive it back again near the center. He lost it for an instant, recovered it, shot it against the boards ahead of Roy, who found it as it carromed away, checked the Hammond point and gave Roy a clean chance at the cage. Roy took the chance and lifted the puck past goal's knees. There was no more scoring and 5 to 3 were the final figures. Ferry Hill went home very well pleased with herself, and no one received more praise than Hadden, whose steady, brilliant work at the goal had contributed more than anything else to the victory.
The final game of the series was not due until two weeks later and during those two weeks Ferry Hill worked like Trojans. But before that final contest was decided Ferry Hill and Hammond had again met on the ice and tried conclusions, and although there was no hockey in this contest it was quite as exciting while it lasted. It came about in this way.
Hammond's right end and captain was a big yellow-haired giant named Schonberg, a brilliant player and a wonderful skater, if the tales one heard of him were true. Possibly the fact that in the recent game Roy, who opposed him, had outplayed him, wounded his vanity. At all events Horace Burlen approached Jack Rogers one morning a few days after the game with an open letter in his hand and a frown on his brow.
"Look at this thing from Hammond, will you, Jack," he said. "They've challenged us to a skating race on the river. Any time and any distance we like, they say; hang their cheek!"
Jack stopped and read the letter.
"Well, I guess they've got us there," he said. "I don't know of any fellow who would stand the ghost of a chance against that chap Schonberg."
"Well, I hate to refuse," replied Horace importantly. "It seems to me we ought to accept the challenge even if we get beaten."
"I suppose we ought," said Jack, "but you'll find it pretty hard to find a fellow willing to try conclusions with Schonberg."
"I'd try it myself," said Horace carelessly, "but I'm terribly out of practice; haven't been on the ice more than two or three times this winter."
"You be blowed!" answered Jack impolitely. "Why Schonberg would leave you standing! Me, too, for that matter. I'll talk the thing over with Roy Porter."
"Think he would stand any show?" asked Horace.
"Roy? I don't know. He's a pretty good skater on the rink, but I don't know what he can do at any distance."
"Well, if he likes to try, he may," said Horace magnanimously.
"I'll tell him so," replied Jack dryly. "You needn't send any answer for a day or so, and meanwhile we'll see what can be done. It seems too bad not to even try; I'd hate to have Hammond think we were afraid of her or that we weren't willing to risk a defeat. Yes, I'll speak to Roy and see what he suggests."
"Well, of course you understand," said Horace, "that the matter is in my charge. If you can find anyone, all right; only you'd better let me know about it before you call the thing decided; I might not approve of the fellow."
"Oh, that's all right. Maybe, after all, you'd better find a chap yourself. I'm rather busy just now with exams—"
"No, you go ahead," interrupted Horace quickly. "What I was trying to get at was—well, you understand, Jack; Porter doesn't like me, you know, and I don't know what he might do; you spoke of consulting him, you know."
"Well, if we find any fellow he'll probably be one of the hockey men, and as Roy's the captain it seems to me—"
"Oh, all right. You see what we can do."
Half an hour later Jack was talking it over with Roy.
"I don't know what you can do at racing," he said, "but if you think you'd make any sort of a showing I think you'd ought to try. But you can do as you like."
"I wouldn't stand any chance with that Dutchman," answered Roy, "but if you can't find anyone else I'll race him. I don't mind being beaten."
So the matter stood for the rest of the day, in fact until the next forenoon. Then Roy was paying a call on the menagerie between examinations at the invitation of Harry, who had lately become the proud possessor of a litter of three Angora kittens. Roy's advice was wanted in the delicate matter of deciding which one of the three was to be kept and which two were to be given away to friends at Miss Cutler's. That momentous question decided and the attractive points of the three little bunches of fur having been set forth by Harry, Roy made the rounds of the "cages," as he called the various boxes and receptacles which held the pets. Methuselah had long ago recovered the full use of his voice and was willing to prove the fact on any occasion. He had become quite attached to Roy and would sit on the edge of his box with eyes closed in seraphic bliss as long as Roy would scratch his head. To-day he talked incessantly from the time they entered the "winter quarters," which was an old harness room in a corner of the smallest stable, until they left to walk back over the ice-crusted boards to School Hall. It was during that walk that Roy chanced to tell of Hammond's challenge. Harry was intensely patriotic and the situation worried her for several minutes.
"There isn't a boy here that can skate," she said scornfully. "They're all duffers. Unless—" she shot a glance at Roy—"unless you can?"
"Not much," answered her companion. "I can work around a rink all right enough, but I never skated in a race in my life."
"Then we'll be beaten," said Harry dolefully. "And I hate that iceberg boy!"
"Schonberg," corrected Roy laughingly.
"Well, some kind of an old berg. I wish—" Harry paused and walked for a minute in silence. Then she turned with sparkling eyes. "I know!" she cried.
"What do you know?"
"There's just one—person here that would stand any chance with Iceberg."
"Who is he?"
"It isn't a he," answered Harry mysteriously.
"Not a he? Then who—what—?"
"It's me, stupid!"
"You? But—"
"Now don't you go and make a lot of objections," cried Harry. "I know I'm not a boy, but I belong to the school—and I can skate; you ask any of the boys; ask Chub or Jack—or Horace. So it's all settled. All you've got to do is to write and tell Hammond that we'll race her any afternoon that the ice will bear. But you needn't say it's me, you know. See? Tell them we haven't decided yet—No, that wouldn't be the truth, would it, for we have decided; at least, I have. Just tell them that—that we'll race them, and don't say anything about who."
"That's great," laughed Roy, "and if Jack—and Horace—are willing, I am. And I hope you'll beat him, Harry. How far do you want to race? They said any distance."
"Then we'll decide that when the time comes," answered Harry. "Maybe a mile, maybe a quarter; we'll see how the ice is, and the wind and all that. And you'd better arrange it for a week from to-day, and I'll just practice up all I can. That's all settled then, isn't it?"
"It certainly sounds so," laughed Roy. "And," he added as the clock in School Hall tower rang eleven, "I wish you'd settle my Latin exam as easily!"
"JUST FOR THE SCHOOL!"
There was a stiff, biting wind blowing straight down the river, nipping the fingers and toes of the crowd about the landing and whirling away the smoke from the chimney of the boat-house. Overhead the winter sky was leaden and sullen clouds were driving southward. Underfoot the ice rang hard as steel, and, save for a space in mid-river, was as smooth as a mirror. It was well on toward four o'clock and already the shadows along the banks hinted of coming night. Hammond and Ferry Hill were hobnobbing about the boat-house stove or out on the ice in front of the landing. The terms of the race had been arranged and the big, yellow-haired Schonberg was idly cutting figures in and out of the group to keep himself warm. The race was to be a half-mile long, starting here at the Ferry Hill landing, crossing straight as a strip of weak ice would permit to a point on the Hammond side of the river and returning again to the landing, finishing at a mark indicated by an empty nail keg and a broken soap box set some twenty yards from shore. All that remained of the preliminaries was for Ferry Hill to produce her entry. Mr. Cobb, who was to act as starter, timer, judge and everything else of an official sort, looked at his watch and announced that it was time to start. Schonberg stopped his capers, removed his sweater and skated to the mark, looking about with pardonable curiosity for a sight of his adversary. Horace and Harry emerged from the throng and joined him.
"This is Mr. Schonberg, Harry," said Horace. "Schonberg, my cousin, Miss Emery."
Harry bowed gravely in her best society manner and Schonberg made a futile grab at his knit cap.
"Happy to meet you," he muttered. Then, possibly for want of something better to say, he turned to Horace and asked:
"When are you chaps going to be ready?"
"We're ready now," answered Horace soberly. Schonberg looked about him. The crowd had surrounded the mark by this time and Mr. Cobb had his watch in hand.
"Where's your man, Burlen?" asked Custis, Hammond's senior class president.
"Right here," answered Horace, indicating Harry. "Miss Emery is our man."
Hammond howled with laughter. Harry's cheeks reddened and her eyes flashed.
"You're joking, aren't you?" asked Custis.
"Not at all," replied Horace impatiently.
"But, I say, Burlen, that's poppycock, you know! We didn't challenge a girl's school!"
"That's all right," said Burlen. "We said we'd race you, and we will. Miss Emery is Doctor Emery's daughter and she belongs to the school just as much as any of us. If you're afraid to race her—"
"Don't be a fool! Of course we're not afraid, but—but it's such nonsense!"
"Course it is," broke in Schonberg. "I didn't come over here to race a girl!"
"Then you shouldn't have agreed to our terms," answered Jack, joining the discussion. "We told you plainly in our letter that we would race you if you'd allow us to name our entry any time before the race. We've decided and there she is. If you have any idea, Schonberg, that you've got an easy thing—well, just try it. Miss Emery's our best skater, and she's so good that we're not ashamed to acknowledge it. And as we knew that Schonberg was an A-1 skater we thought our best wouldn't be any too good."
"Oh, all right," said Custis, with a shrug of his shoulders, "if you insist I guess we're willing."
"I'm not," said Schonberg. "I won't race a girl."
And Schonberg held out for many minutes and had to be argued with, and coaxed by, half the Hammond contingent. But finally he yielded, though with ill grace, and took his place at the mark.
"All right," he said. "I'm ready."
Harry took her place a yard away, the throng pushed back and Mr. Cobb drew out his starting pistol. Those of the boys who were on skates, and most of them were, prepared to follow the contestants.
Harry wore a brown sweater and a short gray skirt. Her skating boots were securely fastened to a pair of long-bladed racing skates. Her head was bare and the wind blew her red tresses about her face as she awaited the signal. There was a little spot of intense color in each cheek and her blue eyes flashed venomously when Schonberg turned to glance at her half contemptuously. If she had needed any incentive to do her level best within the next few minutes Schonberg's pronunciation of the word "girl" had supplied it. Harry was insulted and indignant, and Roy, watching her from a little distance, guessed something of her feelings and took hope. No one really expected Harry to win. That a fourteen-year-old girl should beat a seventeen-year-old boy was out of the question. Schonberg, too, was known to be as good a skater as Hammond had had for many years. But every fellow had implicit faith in Harry and knew that she would give the Hammond skater as hard a race as he had ever had. Mr. Cobb raised his pistol.
"On your mark! Get ready! Set!"
Then the pistol spoke sharply on the winter air and the two contestants, the brown sweater and the red jersey, shot ahead in a mad scramble. The throng followed and for a moment the ring of steel on the hard ice was the only sound. Then the racers, having found their paces, settled down to work. They were side by side, a bare three yards dividing them. Just behind them skated the foremost of the spectators, Roy and Warren and Jack leading. If Schonberg had entertained any idea of having the race to himself he was disillusioned during the first fifty yards. Once he threw a glance at the girl. After that he settled down to work and wasted no time. He skated wonderfully well and even the throng of Ferry Hill boys behind could not but envy him his speed and grace. Body well over, legs gliding back and forth from the hips, head up and arms kept rather close in, Schonberg fairly flew over the ice.
And beside him sped Harry.
Harry was not the accomplished skater that her rival was. She was graceful and she had speed, but she showed far more effort than did the Hammond boy, her strides being shorter and her little brown-clad arms swinging back and forth like bits of machinery. Half way across it became necessary to hold well to the right to avoid the patch of weak ice, but Harry was the last to leave the straight course and Schonberg had to either spurt ahead of her and bear up-river or fall behind. He chose the latter alternative, eased his pace a moment, shot behind her and made for the lowest point of safe ice. For a moment longer Harry clung to her straight course. Then she swung up-stream a trifle and followed him a yard behind, seemingly paying but little heed to the streaks of snow-ice ahead.
Schonberg rounded the danger point and made straight for the farther bank where the limb of a black birch had been placed a few yards from shore to serve as a turning mark. Harry had lost ground during the last few moments, in spite of the fact that she had held closer to the direct course between shore and shore, and was now fully twenty feet behind. Few of the audience went beyond mid-stream, but stopped there and watched the racers reach the farther mark, swing around inside of it and turn back across the river. From where Roy and Jack stood it looked as though Harry had made up a little of her lost ground, but it was hard to tell at that distance.
"He will simply skate away from her coming back," said Jack.
"She's making a dandy race, though," Roy responded. "I didn't think she'd do as well as she has, did you?"
"Yes, but I've seen Harry skate before this. Gee! Just look at the way that Dutchman is coming!"
Already Schonberg was half way across to them, heading for where they stood at the up-stream end of the snow-ice. Behind him, how far behind it was difficult to determine, came Harry, a brown and gray spot in the deepening twilight. Jack and Roy turned and followed the others slowly back toward the finish. When next they looked around Schonberg was almost up to them and Harry—
"Where the dickens is she?" cried Roy.
"There," answered Jack, pointing. "What's she up to? She can't be going to try that weak ice!"
But plainly she was. Not one foot from the direct line between turning point and finish did Harry swerve. Schonberg was well up-stream from her, but no nearer the finish, for he had gone out of his way to avoid the weak ice. Roy shouted a warning and Jack waved wildly, but Harry, if she saw, paid no heed. Straight onward she came, her skates fairly twinkling over the ice, her little body swaying from side to side. Then, before any of the watchers could even turn back to head her off, she was skimming over the white streaks of soft snow-ice.
Roy and Jack and one or two others sped downstream toward her. Roy strove to remember what it was best to do when folks went through the ice and wondered where there was a rope or a plank. Once his heart stood still for an instant, for Harry had stumbled and nearly fallen. But she found her pace again almost instantly and came on, skirting a black pool of open water. She was gaining on Schonberg at every ring of her skates, and that youth, who had now discovered her tactics, was making for the finish with all his might. Before Roy or Jack had reached the margin of the dangerous stretch Harry had left it behind her and was once more on hard ice. As she swept past at a little distance she glanced up and smiled triumphantly.
"Go on, Harry!" they cried in unison, and turned and sped after her.
race"Schonberg made a last despairing effort when twenty feet from the line."
"Schonberg made a last despairing effort when twenty feet from the line."
She had gained many yards over Schonberg and as their converging paths brought them nearer and nearer together this gain became apparent. Roy and Jack skated as hard as they could go, and, being untired, were close up behind Harry when the finish line was a bare fifty feet away. Almost beside them came Schonberg, his head down and every muscle tense with his efforts to reach the line ahead of his adversary. But he was a good six yards to the bad. Hammond and Ferry Hill filled the twilight with their clamor and the wooded bank threw back the frantic cries of "Come on, Schon!" "Go it, Harry!" "Skate! Skate!"
And skate they did, the cherry-red jersey and the brown sweater. Schonberg made a last despairing effort when twenty feet from the line and fairly ate up the ice, but even as he did so Harry brought her feet together, pulled herself erect and slid over the finish three yards ahead, beating her adversary, as Chub said, "in a walk!"
The throngs surrounded the racers, and Harry, flushed of face, panting and laughing, was applauded and congratulated until the din was deafening. Then Schonberg pushed his way through the ranks of her admirers, his red face smiling stiffly. He held out his hand to Harry and removed his red cap.
"You're a bully skater, Miss Emery," he said. "But I guess you wouldn't have won if you hadn't taken a short cut."
"No, I wouldn't," answered Harry with the magnanimity of the conqueror. "You'd have beaten me easily."
Schonberg's smile became more amiable.
"Anyway, I can beat any of the fellows here," he said, recovering some degree of self-sufficiency. And no one contradicted him. "You took big risks when you came across that rotten ice," he went on. "I wouldn't have tried that for a thousand dollars!"
"You wouldn't?" asked Harry, opening her blue eyes very wide. "Why, I'd do it any day—and just for the School!"
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. Thensmash! 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.