“Well, what business have they got trying such tricks?” he muttered in extenuation. “I guess I’ll offer them Jenkins; he really is a good player, Hope; you know that yourself; I’ll put Dennison in his place. And if I do they’ll likely beat us.” “Let ’em. Go ahead and make the offer.” Grove sped away and promptly returned with the announcement that St. Eustace had agreed. “But we want another goal umpire. Will you act, Hope?” Dick would, and was led away. The rink was cleared of spectators, and Trevor and Carl found places of observation on the side-line. The opposing teams took their places. The Hillton players wore crimson sweaters and stockings; before the St. Eustace goal were six blue-clad youths and one crimson, the latter being Jenkins, the borrowed forward. Grove and French, the St. Eustace captain, faced the puck, the referee cried “Play!” and the game was on. It proved a brilliant game, despite the high wind that seriously handicapped the side having the down-river goal. Hillton’s playing in the first half was quick and plucky, and for the first ten of the twenty minutes St. Eustace’s goal was almost constantly in danger. But try after try was foiled by the brilliant work of the Blue’s goal-tend, who time and again won the applause of the shivering audience. Then St. Eustace secured the puck and forced the playing, and for a few minutes Hillton seemed to be taken off her feet. A beautifully lifted stroke finally sent the puck skimming through Hillton’s goal, and the St. Eustace players waved their sticks in delight. Hillton braced when play began again, and was dribbling the disk threateningly toward the Blue’s goal when time was called. “I wish I had Jenkins back,” complained Grove as, bundled in his blanket, he joined Trevor and Carl. “He played better than any fellow on our team--or theirs either, for that matter.” “Who shot that goal?” asked Carl. “French; it was a dandy. Our little friend Billings yonder looks mad, doesn’t he?” The displaced player had joined the St. Eustace team, and was evidently bemoaning his fate. He was a tall, freckle-faced youth who, as Grove had said, appeared every day of twenty-one or two. He had a slouchy stoop to his shoulders, but nevertheless looked dangerous as a hockey player. Dick joined the other three lads. “I just heard your freckled-faced friend explaining why it is you’ll never make a good player, Grove,” he announced. “He says you don’t get low enough; says he could put you off your feet easily.” “He does, eh?” grunted Grove. “I wish we’d let him play; I’d put him off _his_ feet, the big mucker!”