The Crimson Sweater Part 22

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 Inst.i.tute team, twelve goals to nine, and had practised diligently and enthusiastically every possible moment. And so when, on a bright, cold Sat.u.r.day 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed to Roy, Roy pa.s.sed across to Warren, Warren overskated, Rogers doubled back and rescued the disk, pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 subst.i.tutes and members of the second team had taken possession of the rink and Bacon was guarding goal against the a.s.saults 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--"