Well, there wouldn’t be any use in trying to tell about the rest of the game in detail. From 6-all the score went to 8――6 in our favor, Lamar shooting all the goals. Then, just for variety, MacLean made one himself, though it looked pretty lucky to me, and after that Munson made one. But that was the last of her scoring. Lamar shot another from near the barrier that hit the goal man’s stick and bounced into the goal, and Munson lost heart. Of course her players just stuck around Lamar to keep him from shooting, but that didn’t work very well, for he generally got away from them, or, if he didn’t MacLean or one of the others shot. Toward the last of it they just sort of massed themselves in front of their goal and tried to hide it. Even so, Lamar got a couple through, and several more damaged the defenders considerably, one fellow stopping the puck unintentionally with his chin. It seemed that Lamar couldn’t miss, and, because his shots were always off the ice, they were hard to stop, and so, when the final whistle sounded, the score was 18 to 7 and Lamar was credited with nine of the eighteen! That gave us the series by eight points, and the championship, and there was a lot more cheering, especially for Lamar, and Pug and I went back to Puffer. I felt quite a lot of satisfaction because my suggestion to put Lamar into the game had, beyond the shadow of a doubt, accomplished the victory for our team, and I mentioned the fact to Pug. Pug, though, was rather nasty, claiming that the original idea had been his. However, I made short work of that ridiculous contention, the more easily since Pug, having yelled all through the contest and got his feet wet in spite of his galoshes, wasn’t able to speak above a whisper. I warned him that he would have a sore throat to-morrow, but he scowled at me. “I don’t care,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t care if I do! We won the championship! And――and, by golly, next year I’m going to play hockey myself!” Which shows how even the briefest contact with athletic affairs may corrupt one. CHAPTER XVI GINGER BURKE “Hello!” “Babe” Linder, the big catcher of the Holman’s School nine, turned in the operation of pulling on his huge mitt and observed the speaker with mild interest. “Hello, son,” he returned gravely. “Is it natural or did science achieve that brilliant result?” “What yer mean?” asked the other, earnest and anxious. “Your hair, son. How did you get it that way?” “It’s always been red,” answered the smaller youth, unoffended, but dropping his steady gaze a moment while he dug in the dirt in front of the bench with one scuffed shoe. “You can’t beat Nature, can you?” sighed Babe.