A gray day, still and cold. The river winding away into the misty distance, a green ribbon of glaring ice. A thin powder of crisp snow over the frozen earth and a feeling in the air as of more to come. From the buildings on the hill the smoke rises straight up, blue-gray against the neutral tint of the sky. From the rink by the river comes the sound of voices ringing sharply on the motionless air and the metallic clanging and scraping of skates on the hard ice. The Yardley Hockey Team is at practice. School has been open a week and, although St. John’s has fallen victim to the prowess of the blue-stockinged skaters by the score of two goals to none, Alf is far from satisfied with the work of his charges and to-day that much abused word “strenuous” best describes what is going on.
Alf has got his boards and an eight-inch barrier surrounds the rink, the planks being nailed to stakes driven into the ground and their lower[200] edges frozen solid in the margin of the ice. Beyond the boards is a retaining wall of earth some eighteen inches high from the top of which at the present moment some twenty or thirty spectators, well wrapped against the cold, are watching practice. Two benches, borrowed from the tennis courts, are piled with sweaters and extra paraphernalia.
At this end of the rink, his knees bent behind the big padded leg guards and his body unconsciously following, with his eyes, every move of the puck, stands Dan, one hand resting on the top of the goal and the other grasping his broad stick. In front of him Alf is poised at point. Then comes Felder at cover point. The forwards just at present are inextricably mixed with the Second Team players, but three of them you know by sight at least; Goodyear and Roeder playing the centers of the line and Durfee at right end. The left end is Hanley, a Second Class boy.
The Second Team consists to-day of Norcross at goal, Sommers at point, Coke at cover point, and Dick French, Arthur Thompson, Dickenson, and Longwell as forwards. Along the barrier are the substitutes of both teams, three of whom we know; Gerald Pennimore and Eisner and Ridge[201] of the football eleven. Dickenson is captain and under his leadership the Second is putting up a strong game these days. Along the side of the rink, following the play, skates Andy Ryan, his twinkling green eyes ever watching for off-side play and his whistle ever ready to signal a cessation of hostilities. It does so now, and the players pause and lean panting on their sticks while Andy captures the puck. Dickenson and Roeder face-off, the puck is dropped and play begins again. Dickenson captures the puck, and the Second’s line is quickly formed to sweep down the rink. Dickenson passes clear across to French. Hanley checks him for an instant, but he recovers the disk and slides it across to Arthur. Then the First Team’s defense takes a hand. Felder hurls himself at Arthur, but the puck slips aside just in the nick of time, and Dickenson, whirling about a half-dozen yards from goal, eludes Hanley and shoots. Alf has been put out of the play by Longwell and the puck skims by him knee-high, and in spite of Dan’s efforts with stick and body lodges cosily in a corner of the net. The attack waves its sticks wearily and turns back up the ice as Andy blows his whistle. The score is three to two now in favor of the First, and there remains but a few minutes of the second[202] half. Gerald, who has been appointed timekeeper, announces the fact from the side. So both teams put in their substitutes, and Gerald, eagerly handing the stop-watch over to Goodyear, pulls his ulster off and leaps the boards. Besides Goodyear, Felder, Durfee, and Roeder retire from the First. Sanderson takes Felder’s place, and Eisner, Gerald, and Ridge play forward.
The puck goes back to the center of the ice, Dickenson and Ridge face-off, the whistle blows and the struggle begins again. Back comes the rubber to Goodyear and down the rink sweep the First’s line, low and hard, the puck traveling back and forth across the powdered surface. Down goes Ridge with a crash and a splintered stick, but the remaining three are still line-abreast. Then the Second’s cover point flies out, there is a wild mêlée in front of goal, and away skims the puck. Gerald reaches it, but is quickly shouldered across the barrier, and Dickenson steals away toward the First’s goal, the disk sliding along easily at the point of his stick. Eisner flies to challenge him, Dickenson passes too late, and once more the First is sweeping toward the enemy’s goal. Hanley passes to Ridge ten yards from the net and Ridge, eluding the opposing[203] point, carries the puck on, with Eisner close behind him. Sticks clash and skates grind; Eisner goes down carrying Sommers with him; the puck flies here and there in front of goal; and then Gerald, slipping in between the battling players, reaches the rubber with the tip of his stick and, before he is swept aside, slides it past the goal-tender’s foot. Andy’s whistle announces a score and stops play.
“Good work, Gerald!” cries Alf from down the rink.
“Time’s up!” announces Goodyear.
“Let’s have another five minutes, Andy,” Dickenson begs. But Andy shakes his head.
“You’ve had enough. You’re tired. That’s all to-day.”
The spectators hurry away up the hill in the gathering twilight, and the players, after removing their skates and donning coats and sweaters, follow by ones and twos and threes, discussing the play, explaining and arguing. The talk lasts all through the subsequent half hour in the gymnasium while the shower baths are hissing, while bruises are being examined by the watchful trainer and while the boys are getting into their clothes again. By this time appetites are at top-notch, and anyone who has ever played two fifteen-minute[204] halves of a hockey game after a half-hour’s practice on a cold afternoon will know why.
The first number of the Scholiast issued after the beginning of the new term contained a schedule of the Hockey’s Team’s contests, and all agreed that French had done his work well. St. John’s was followed by Greenburg High School on the 13th. Then came Carrel’s School on the 17th, Warren Hall on the 23d, and the Yale Freshmen on the 30th. Nordham came on February 6th, Rock Hill College on the 13th, and the season ended with the Broadwood game on the 20th.
They talked it over that night in 7 Dudley, Alf and Tom and Dan. It was a cold, windy night, the steam pipes were chugging and there was a glowing coal fire in the grate. The three boys had pulled their chairs close to the hearth and were toasting their knees comfortably. Examinations had begun, and it had been a hard day for all of them, but they had each weathered the perils and now were enjoying their reward.
“Did you read this?” asked Tom, holding up his copy of the Scholiast.
“Joe’s editorial?” asked Dan lazily. “Yes. Great, isn’t it?”
“It ought to make a big hit with faculty,”[205] said Alf. “I love that about ‘a realization of our duty toward those who have patiently and tirelessly sought to instill into our minds the knowledge which in after years—in after years—’ I’ve forgotten the rest. But it’s perfectly scrumptious!”
“Oh, Joe’s a wonder when he rumples his hair and looks wild-eyed,” said Tom. “He will make Horace Greeley and the rest of our great journalists look like base imitations when he gets started. Did you see the hockey schedule, Alf?”
“Yes, and for a wonder they got it right. It’s a pretty good schedule, Dan.”
“Yes, but when I think of how many bruises I got in the St. John’s game and then multiply them by the number of games to come my courage fails. I guess I’ll be a fit candidate for the infirmary about the middle of the season.”
“Oh,” laughed Alf, “you’ll soon learn to get the puck with your hand instead of your body. It’s a great mistake to try and stop it with your head, Dan.”
Dan felt of a lump just over his forehead.
“I guess you’re right; especially since if I had got out of the way of that one it would have gone out of the rink, whereas by stopping it with my head it fell in front of goal, and some malicious[206] idiot knocked it in before I had stopped studying astronomy!”
“Accidents will happen,” remarked Tom sagely.
“You bet they will! And I’m going to take out an accident policy. I’m beginning to look like a tattooed man, I’m so full of nice little black and blue and yellow spots! I can tell you one thing, Alfred Loring, and that is that if I had known that playing goal was the ............