The balance of the week was a busy time for Dick. His usual hour of study before supper was dropped, and he spent that time with every other spare moment in trying to recruit candidates for the crews. He buttonholed boys in classroom and even in chapel, pursued them across the frozen Yard, waylaid them in the corridors, and bearded them in their dens; and all with small success. Those who displayed a willingness to go in for rowing were almost invariably younger fellows whose ambitions were better developed than their muscles. Those whom Dick longed to secure had an excuse for every inducement he could set forth. The seniors pleaded lessons; the upper middle fellows were going in for baseball, cricket, anything save rowing; the lower class boys were unpromising to a degree; and when Saturday came he found that out of a possible ten recruits the most promising was a long-legged, pasty-faced youth who had been dropped from the hockey team and whose desperate desire to distinguish himself in some manner was alone accountable for his complaisance.

That Taylor and Crocker and some of the other candidates had been busy was evident from the first—Taylor especially, Dick told himself bitterly.

“Try for the crew?” said one senior whom Dick approached, “why, Roy Taylor was speaking to me about it, and I promised him I’d think it over. But I don’t see how I can, Hope; you know yourself how beastly hard the studies are this term; I’m an awful duffer at mathematics, and German, too; and then as for physics—well, really I can’t see how I’m ever going to pass.” And when Dick pointed out modestly enough that he (Dick) had the same studies and was going in for rowing, and expected to graduate notwithstanding, the other waived the argument aside carelessly: “Oh, you, Hope! You’re different; you’re one of those lucky beggars that never have any trouble with lessons. Why, if I was like you I wouldn’t hesitate an instant; I’d say put me down for the crew right away. But as it is—— By the way, is it true that you’ve only got twenty candidates?”

“Who told you that?” asked Dick.

“Taylor, I think. That isn’t very many, is it? I don’t see how you’ll get a crew out of that.”

“Nor do I,” muttered Dick, as he turned away discouraged.

When Saturday came, bringing Carl Gray at two o’clock with the suggestion that Dick join him and witness the hockey match with St. Eustace, the latter concluded that he had earned a vacation, and so donned his warmest sweater and jacket and allowed himself to be torn away from the subject of candidates. As the two lads crossed the yard toward the steps that led down to the river by the boat-house they encountered Trevor, who, when their destination was made known to him, turned about and joined them. It was a bitterly cold day, and the wind, sweeping down the broad river, nipped ears and noses smartly. Despite this, however, a fair-sized audience had assembled on the ice near the landing, where a rink had been marked out, and were either circling about on skates or tramping to and fro to keep warm.

“Haven’t begun yet,” said Carl Gray as they reached the head of the steps. “Looks as though they were having a debate instead of a hockey match.”

As they reached the ice they saw that the captain of the Hillton team, an upper middle youth named Grove, was in earnest conversation with a St. Eustace player—apparently the captain of the opposing team—while a circle of interested boys surrounded them. As the three approached the gathering broke up, and Grove, spying Dick, came toward him looking angry and indignant.

“Say, Hope, what do you think? St. Eustace wants to play that big dub over there; see him? The fellow with the white sweater. Why, he’s twenty-two if he’s a day! And he isn’t a St. Eustace fellow at all; Brown knows him. He lives at Marshall and works in a mill or something. I’ve told French that we wouldn’t play if they put him on. Don’t you think that’s right?”

“He does look rather big and aged for a St. Eustace chap,” replied Dick with a grin. “And of course if you’re certain he’s an outsider you’re right not to give in. What does the St. Eustace captain say?”

“Oh, he says the fellow’s a day scholar; that he’s only eighteen; and that they haven’t brought any subs, and that if Billings—that’s the mucker’s name—if Billings can’t play there won’t be any game.”

“Queer thing to come all the way up here without any subs,” said Carl. “But I tell you what you can do, Grove; offer to lend them a man. What does Billings play?”

“Forward,” grumbled Grove. “We might do that. Who could we give them?”

“You’d have to give them a good player,” said Dick.

“I suppose so. Well, there’s Perry over there.”

“No, you don’t,” laughed Dick. “I know Perry; I talked with him the other day; he’s the fellow you dropped from the team last week.” Grove looked sheepish.

“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!”

“There, there, keep your sweet little temper,” laughed Dick. “And come on; time’s up.” The crowd took up its position along the boundary lines again, and again the puck was put in play. Hillton had good luck at the start. Superb team work on the part of the crimson-clad forwards took the disk down to within striking distance of their opponents’ goal, and a quick drive by Grove sent it through. St. Eustace’s goal-tend looked surprised and vexed, and the audience cheered delightedly. Four minutes later the same proceeding was repeated, and after two ineffectual tries the puck slid through between the goal-tend’s skates just where he apparently didn’t expect it to go. That was Dennison’s score, and again the onlookers voiced their pleasure. The score was now two to one in Hillton’s favor, and St. Eustace shook herself together and played hard. For ten minutes neither side scored. Then, by a brilliant rush down the side of the rink, Jenkins, the borrowed player, fooled the Hillton cover-point, and, aided by French, ran past point and lifted the disk through between the Hillton posts—a difficult shot that won him lots of applause. The score was now tied, with a scant five minutes of play left.

Trevor and Carl, deeply intent on the game, suddenly had their attention diverted by a voice from near at hand. “What do you think of that, now? What do those fellers in red think they’re playing, billiards? O-oh, ain’t that awful!” It was the deposed St. Eustace forward, Billings, who was celebrating the Blue’s recent goal, and revenging himself on his enemies by ridiculing the home players. Carl glared, and the throng surrounding him looked hostile to a boy.

“He ought to have sense enough to keep his mouth shut,” said Carl.

“Yes, but he’s got pluck to talk that way in this crowd,” replied Trevor with a grin.

“Not a bit; he knows he’s safe enough. It isn’t likely that fifty or sixty fellows would jump on one lone chap, no matter how cheeky he was.”

The ridicule continued, but after the first recognition of the affront the throng of Hilltonians tacitly ignored the freckle-faced youth; indeed, in another minute his existence was forgotten, for with but a couple of minutes to play St. Eustace’s point secured the puck, and with a fine stroke sent it sailing down the rink into Hillton territory, where a misplay on the part of the Crimson’s cover-point gave Jenkins his opportunity, and the next instant Hillton’s goal was besieged. A stroke at close quarters was blocked, and the disk skimmed toward the side of the rink, only to be again recovered and dribbled forward until it was once more in the possession of the redoubtable Jenkins. There was a rush by Grove and another Hillton forward, the sound of clashing sticks, and then out from the mÊlÉe like a shot from a cannon sped the puck, straight for the goal and about two feet above the ice. The Hillton goal-tend leaped to the left and turned to receive the disk on his padded thigh. But he was too late. The puck struck him, but was only slightly deflected, and in another moment the St. Eustace sticks were waving high in air, and the goal-tend, crestfallen and dazed, was ruefully rubbing his hip. Hillton returned resolutely to the battle, and the puck was again faced, but time was called ere it was well out of the scrimmage, and the game was St. Eustace’s by three goals to two. Trevor turned away in disappointment, and was confronted by the triumphant Billings, who was whirling his stick about his head and grinning provokingly.

“Oh, easy, easy! Those kids can’t play hockey; they ought to be at home doing needlework.” Carl muttered something uncomplimentary, and Trevor reddened as they pushed their way through the dissolving throng. Billings, spying Trevor as he approached, thrust himself in his path.

“Say, sonny, why don’t you kids learn the game?”

Trevor strove to keep his temper and pass, but the Marshall youth laid a determining hand on his arm.

“You see, sonny, what you Hillton kids want to do is to learn how to skate, see? There ain’t any use trying to play hockey until you can skate.”

Trevor turned and smiled very sweetly.

“Perhaps you think you can skate?” he asked in a tone of polite inquiry.

“I have a hunch that way,” replied Billings with a swagger.

“That’s very nice,” answered Trevor, “because you don’t look as though you could, you know.”

A circle of interested Hilltonians had already formed, and were grinning their appreciation. Billings appeared somewhat astounded for an instant. Then he thrust his jaw out aggressively, and asked angrily:

“Say, what’s the matter with you, kid? Do you think you can teach me anything about skating?”

“Well, of course, I’m a month or two younger than you, you know”—here the crowd snickered impolitely—“but I rather fancy that I can beat you by a few yards in a half-mile race. Would you care to try?”

For a moment Billings looked doubtful. Possibly he thought that he had unwittingly encountered the school’s crack skater, and feared for the result. If he did the idea was dispelled by Trevor’s next remark.

“They don’t call me much of a skater here, you know; we have several fellows who can beat me without trouble, but they’re all rather busy just at present, and so, if you don’t mind putting up with something ordinary, I’ll be glad to show you what I can about skating.” The gentle patronage of Trevor’s tones was beautiful, and the audience hugged itself gleefully. Billings laughed loudly and scornfully.

“You will, eh? Say, you’re awfully nice, aren’t you? Mama know you’re out?” Trevor reddened but kept his temper.

“I fancy I could beat you by about twenty yards in a half mile,” he said musingly.

That was the last straw, and Billings elbowed his way toward the boat-house landing.

“Get your skates on, sonny, and I’ll show you what you don’t know about skating.”

“Where can I get a pair?” asked Trevor, addressing the fellows about him.

“Get Grove’s; what size shoe do you wear?” asked Carl. “Five? They ought to fit; wait here and I’ll get them.” And he hurried off.

“Do you think you can beat him, ’Ighness?” asked one of the crowd.

“I fancy so; anyhow, I’ll do my best.” Carl returned with Groves skating-boots, to which were screwed a superb pair of hockey skates. Trevor tried them on, and found that they fitted perfectly. News of the proposed race had spread, and those who had started toward their rooms had returned, while the two hockey teams, having taken off their skates and donned their heavy clothing, also joined the throng. Billings swept up majestically, and Trevor, who had been trying his skates in short circles, joined him.

“Suppose you skate around Long Isle and back,” suggested Grove; “that’s about a half mile. We’ll draw a mark here for the finish. I say, French, you might act as judge at the finish. Dick, you start them, will you?”

“Standing start?” asked Dick.

Trevor looked inquiringly at Billings. “Doesn’t matter to me,” growled that youth.

“All right. On your marks,” said Dick. “You’re to skate to the right, around Long Isle, and return here, crossing this line in this way from below. Is that satisfactory?”

Trevor nodded and felt for a hold with his rear blade, and Billings uttered another growl.

“On your marks!—Set!—Go!”

Away they sped, Billings slightly in the lead, having learned the science of quick starting from his hockey experience. They crossed the river diagonally, heading for the down-stream end of the island, Billings bending low, hands clasped behind his back, in the approved style of American racers; Trevor more erect, arms swinging by his sides, and apparently putting forth much less effort than his competitor.

“Carl, can Nesbitt skate?” asked Dick somewhat anxiously. Carl shook his head.

“Don’t ask me. I never met him until the other day. But he can skate; we can see that; the question is how well?”

“I hope he’ll win, if only to shut that bragging mucker up. Hello, look there!”

Carl looked and uttered a groan of dismay. Long Isle, lying almost abreast of the boat landing and about two thirds way across the river, is in reality composed of not one, but two islands, the second, scarcely twenty yards long, being separated from the main expanse at its lower end by a scant two yards of ice-covered channel. This fact had been overlooked, and now the watchers saw, at first with surprise and then with annoyance, that the skaters had parted company. Billings had headed for the channel, while Trevor, holding to a close interpretation of the agreement, was making for the end of the smaller island. The next moment Billings was out of sight; another instant and Trevor too had disappeared.

“If Nesbitt can overcome that handicap he’s a good one,” muttered Dick.

“That’s so,” Carl assented. “It means a good fifty yards lost, I guess.” Some of the boys had hurried across the ice to the island, and from a point of vantage near its northern end were to be seen waving their arms wildly. But the throng at the finish could gather no hint from their gestures as to the progress of the racers.

“Evidently a misunderstanding there,” said French, the St. Eustace captain, approaching Grove. “Which is Long Isle?”

“Both of ’em,” grunted Grove.

“Well, but——”

“Oh, it’s all right, I guess; Billings wasn’t supposed to know; it was my fault; I forgot about that plaguy little bunch of land beyond there. The fellow that crosses first wins,” he added decisively. “What do you say, Hope?”

“That’s right; Billings couldn’t know that he was supposed to go around both islands.”

“Very well,” answered French, “but I’m sorry there was any misunderstanding. Your man may think that he might have won if it hadn’t been for the mistake.”

“He may win anyhow,” said Dick dryly. “The race isn’t over yet.” French looked to see if Dick was joking, but finding no signs of levity, smiled politely and deprecatingly, and moved off. The next moment the boys on the island left their places and came scrambling back across the ice, and then a skater came into view around the up-river end of the island and headed for the finish.

“It’s Billings,” said Dick in disappointed tones. But ere the words were out of his mouth a second form sped into sight, and a cheer went up from the watchers. Trevor was apparently but a half dozen yards behind, and, although as the racers were coming directly toward the group it was impossible to be certain on that point, seemed to be gaining at every stride.

Carl slapped Dick boisterously on the shoulder and then hugged him ecstatically. “Can ’Is ’Ighness skate, Dick? Can he skate?”

“Can he!” howled Dick. “Look, he’s even with him; he’s—by Jupiter, Carl, he’s ahead of him!”

He was; and not only ahead now, but leading by a good three yards. Every voice was raised in shouts of encouragement, and cries of “Hurry up, Billings!” “Come on, Nesbitt!” “You can beat him! Brace up!” “Bully for Hillton!” broke into the frosty air as the two racers, bearing down swiftly, almost silently, on the finish line, sped nearer and nearer.

Twenty yards away Trevor threw a fleeting glance over his shoulder at his straining rival, and then, suddenly bending lower over the leaden-hued surface, fairly left the other standing and shot through the lane in the crowd and over the line a winner by ten long yards!

And how Hillton howled!

“Even old ‘Turkey’ couldn’t beat that!” exulted Carl.

Trevor swung about near shore and skated leisurely back to where Billings, red-faced and panting, was explaining to French and the rest of the St. Eustace team how it happened. But his friends looked utterly bored at his narrative, and turned away one by one toward the landing steps. Trevor came to a stop a yard in front of the tall, freckle-faced youth, who paused in his explanation and regarded him angrily. The crowd hushed its chatter in delighted anticipation. Trevor thrust his hands under his sweater and regarded Billings with a wealth of genial condescension.

“Any time you’d like to learn more about skating,” he remarked sweetly, “come up. I’m always at leisure Saturday afternoons.”

Then he nodded amiably and skated away ere the outraged Billings could summon his scattered wits to the rescue of his equally scattered dignity.