Clif was over the boards in record time, shorn of his blanket but still battling with a reluctant sweater. A kind-hearted schoolmate reached across the barrier and helped him out of it; Clif panted “Thanks!” and swung off, tapping his stick, trying hard to get his cold muscles limbered up in the brief moments remaining. Afraid of Houston! Where did Pinky get that stuff, he wondered. He wasn’t afraid of the whole Wolcott team. Of course they might be better than he; skate better, handle their sticks better, shoot better; but they couldn’t any of them _try_ harder! The Wolcott captain, once more on his skates, ambled groggily about, watched anxiously by his team mates, and at last signified his desire to continue hostilities. The referee skated away from the boards and lifted his whistle. Players hurried to positions. There was a shrill twe-e-et and the battle went on. Wolcott snared the puck from the face-off and shot along the ice, forming quick formation. Cover point went over to the left, tried desperately to stop the hurtling disk and found himself passed. The attack swept into goal. Clif hovered about Houston, but the puck went across to the other side and there was a quick shot. Coles slipped to the right and the disk bounded away from a leg guard. Clif pushed toward it, but Raiford swung past and hooked it. A Wolcott player challenged him and Raiford fed the puck down the rink. Skates ground and clanged as the teams sped in pursuit. The audience, mostly home-team sympathizers, yelled continuously. The puck shot hither and yon, back and forth, banged against the boards, flew through the air, skimmed the ice, yet remained safely away from both nets. Precious moments sped. Time and again overeagerness brought the shrill whistle for off-side. Both Blue and Brown were striving desperately now, sacrificing science for main force. The playing grew more and more ragged as it became harder. Teamwork almost disappeared, in spite of the captains’ frantic appeals, and individual effort, save for brief flashes of cohesion, took the place of formation play. One minute passed and another. The period entered its final two and still the game was undecided and, from all indications, likely to remain so until an extra “sudden-death” period arrived. Clif had followed instructions implicitly, holding to the tall, fast-skating and elusive Houston like a limpet. The big brown-hosed right wing had more than once showed impatience and more than once vented his wrath by ungentle administrations of his stick against Clif’s legs. But Clif didn’t feel the blows; at least not then. He continued to dog Houston’s every move, and such covering, while it mitigated against Clif’s usefulness as an attacking player, certainly mitigated quite as much against Houston’s value in a similar capacity. Twice at least Clif was able to tell himself with grim satisfaction that his close attention to the big Wolcott chap had prevented a shot.