“Hands down, Cap!” answered the coach. “You wait and see what we can accomplish in two weeks of pulling together!” And so it came about that when the referee skated to the center of the rink armed with puck and whistle two afternoons later it was Toby Tucker who stood guard at the south goal, Toby very sturdy-looking and straight in toque and sweater and padded khaki pants and magnificent white leg-guards, his white-gloved hands holding his stick across his body, his blue eyes very bright and alert and his mouth set firmly and straight. Toby made a dazzling figure there in the cold sunlight of a boisterous winter day and, in his costume of dark-blue and white, against the yellow boards of the barrier and the wind-swept sky above, might almost have stepped from a poster. In front of him Hal Framer leaned on his stick, and beyond stood Ted Halliday, and then Crumbie, and, finally, facing the Rock Hill left wing, Orson Crowell. To the right was Arnold Deering and to the left Jim Rose. At the other end of the rink, poised on impatient skates, was the Rock Hill College team, colorful in gray and crimson. A hard, north-westerly gale blew across the ice, stinging faces and numbing fingers and, at times, whirling little clouds of powdery snow in air. A steady _thump-thump_ sounded as the spectators crowded close to the barrier kicked their shoes against the boards to warm fast-chilling feet. Behind the nets, ulstered, hands plunged deep into warm pockets, the goal umpires stood and shivered. Then the referee poised the puck with one hand above the waiting sticks and raised the whistle to his lips. The tattoo against the boards died away. A shrill blast sounded, the gray disk of rubber dropped to the ice, sticks clashed, skate-blades bit and the game began.