Glengarry Schooldays [79]
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
"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