Frank Lamson was coming along the corridor as Toby reached the top of the last flight. The fact that Stillwell’s door was open indicated that Frank had been paying a visit to the substitute cover point. Toby was for passing with a nod and a word, but Frank, who seemed to be in unusually good humor, stopped.

“Hello, Sober Sides,” he greeted. “What’s the good word?”

“Hello, Frank,” answered Toby without much enthusiasm. “How are you?”

“Oh, fine! How do you like playing on a real team, Toby?”

“Pretty well. I’ll probably like it better when I get more—more used to it. I dare say you found it hard at first, didn’t you?”

“Rather! You wait till you have Crowell and Arn and those chaps shooting at you. Then you’ll know what playing goal really is. Say, I heard that Dave Henry isn’t coming back. Know anything about it?”

Toby shook his head. “No. They were talking about it to-night in Arn’s room, but I got the idea that he expected to get off probation in two or three weeks.”

“Two or three weeks?” Frank repeated calculatingly. “That would make it just before the Broadwood game. Well, I don’t wish him any bad luck, but I’d like it just as well if he didn’t.” Frank grinned and winked expressively. “I’d sort of like to play goal myself against Broadwood, you see.”

“You think that if Henry didn’t get back you’d play?” asked Toby innocently.

“Sure thing! Why not? Who else is there?” asked Frank in surprise. “Unless you think you’re going to do it.” Frank was plainly amused.

“Well, if anything happened to you,” said Toby gravely, “I might have a chance.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Tobias. So don’t set your hope on that,” chuckled Frank. “What could happen, eh?”

“Well, you might fall downstairs and break something, or you might have measles or scarlet fever—”

“Don’t be an idiot,” growled the other. “I dare say you’d like something to happen, though. I guess it wouldn’t do you much good, however. You’re too green yet, son.”

“I suppose so,” agreed Toby reluctantly. “I dare say it will take me a long time to learn to play goal the way you do, Frank.”

Frank nodded, placated and cheerful again. “Oh, I’m not such a much,” he replied. “I can’t play the game Henry can yet, but I haven’t had the practice he’s had. But if he stays out another two weeks or so it might just happen that we wouldn’t want him so much. That chap Loring’s a great coach. He’s showing me a lot of things. I’ll bet you that in another week they won’t be getting ’em by me so’s you’ll notice it, Toby.”

“Yes, a lot can happen in a week.” Toby agreed thoughtfully.

“Right-o! Well, good-night. How’s business? Still pressing? Oh, by the way, old scout, I still owe you a small bit, don’t I?”

“One dollar, five,” answered Toby promptly.

“All right. I’ll pay that to-morrow, Toby. I really meant to settle it long ago, but you know how it is. I blew in so much money at Christmas that I came back stoney-broke. There’s a chap owes me a couple of dollars, and I’ll collect it to-morrow and pay you, Toby. Good-night.”

Frank went off, whistling cheerfully, and Toby entered his room and spread his books out. “I wish he would pay me,” he muttered. “But I don’t suppose he will. And I wish—I wish I knew where he got that scarf-pin!”

Toby hurried out of Mr. Gladdis’s English class the next forenoon at a minute after eleven and scurried across to Whitson and up two flights of stairs. In his room he dumped his books on the table, slipped on a sweater under his jacket, put on his cap and then paused before the door and thoughtfully patted his pockets. Wasn’t there something else? Of course! He must take some money with him! So he went to the bureau and, pulling open the second drawer, rummaged around for the little pasteboard box that held his Hockey Fund.

“That’s funny,” he murmured, turning over the scanty contents of the drawer. Finally he pulled everything out. The little box was certainly not there! He shook each garment and put it back hurriedly and agitatedly, and still no box came to light. He looked searchingly about the room, on the table, on the bureau, even on the floor. Then he went through the other drawers, tossing their contents about anxiously. Finally, at a loss, he stopped and, plunging his hands into his pockets, frowned at the floor.

“I had it out last night,” he recalled. “I made change for Tommy Lingard. But I didn’t take it away from the bureau and I remember putting it right back again. At least, I’m almost sure. I suppose I might have dropped it in my pocket. But I had these clothes on—” He ransacked his pockets, but without success. Then: “It must be here,” he muttered, and once more he searched the second drawer in the bureau, again taking everything out and shaking it thoroughly. But there was no box and no six dollars and a quarter! It was certainly puzzling! To make certain that he had not put the contents of the box in his pocket, he turned his pockets inside-out. Sixteen cents, mostly in coppers, that crumpled dollar bill that Lingard had given him, a knife, a bone button that belonged on his overcoat and a skate key emerged from his trousers. His waistcoat yielded his memorandum-book and a leather case containing a fountain pen and two pencils. From his coat he extracted a handkerchief, a small roll of lead wire, the inch-long remains of a third pencil, a letter from his mother which had reached him that morning and the end of a roll of adhesive tape. That was all. He restored the articles to his pockets, all save the letter and the button, and sank dejectedly into the dilapidated arm-chair.

At that moment footsteps came along the hall and Arnold called: “Are you there, Toby?”

“Yes,” was the dismal response. “Come on in.”

“It’s nearly twenty minutes past eleven—” began Arn, appearing in the doorway. Then he caught sight of Toby’s dejected countenance and stopped. “Hello, what’s the matter, Toby?”

“I can’t find my money.”

“Can’t find it? Where was it?”

“In the bureau drawer. It was in a little box and I hid it under some things there. And now it’s gone!”

“Oh, feathers! Look again. How much was it?”

“I have looked again. There was six dollars and a quarter in it.”

Arn whistled expressively and viewed the still open drawer. “Let me have a look,” he said. But he was no more successful than Toby had been. “You probably put it somewhere else,” he suggested brightly. “Have you looked in the other drawers?”

“I’ve looked everywhere,” answered Toby sadly. “It—it just isn’t anywhere!”

“You don’t suppose—you don’t suppose any one’s taken it, do you?” asked Arnold, frowning.

“No one knew it was there. Besides, no one ever comes in here except Nellie.”

“Well, Nellie wouldn’t take it. She’s been goody here for years. So, if no one took it, it must be around somewhere. Come on and let’s make a thorough search, Toby.”

Ten minutes later they acknowledged defeat.

“I’m awfully sorry, Toby,” said Arnold. “But maybe it will turn up yet. Things do, you know, when you’re not looking for them. I guess, anyway, it’s too late to go to Greenburg now, for I promised Frank I’d play pool with him in the club at twelve. I’d lend you the money, but I’m just about broke. I say, though, they’ll charge stuff to you, Toby. They aren’t supposed to, but they do it right along. Lots of fellows have accounts in Greenburg. If faculty doesn’t get on to it you’re all right—as long as you don’t let things run too long. Maybe we can get over Monday after dinner.”

“What’s the good of having them charged if I can’t pay for them?” asked Toby morosely. “Anyway, I wouldn’t dare to. When you win a scholarship you have to be mighty careful, don’t you?”

“I don’t know,” laughed Arnold. “I never won one yet. Well, cheer up, old man. You’ll run across that money when you aren’t expecting to. Come along up to Cambridge and play pool.”

“I don’t know how, thanks. You go ahead.”

“Well, come and watch me beat Frank then.”

But Toby refused and presently Arnold hurried away to keep his appointment, leaving Toby staring disappointedly after him. “He’d rather play pool with Frank than help me find my money,” he told himself. Considering that Arnold had put in a good ten minutes of searching, that was rather unjust, but Toby was in no mood to judge persons or things fairly just now. “If it had been he who lost it,” Toby muttered resentfully, “I’d have stayed around and helped him find it. I wish I’d asked him to tell Frank to bring around that dollar and five cents!”

Presently he set to work restoring the room to its wonted tidiness, always hoping that the Hockey Fund would turn up. But it didn’t, and when things were once more in place he banged the door behind him and went downstairs and loafed disconsolately around the Prospect until dinner time. It was much too cold for comfort, but Toby found satisfaction in being miserable and cold.

He didn’t see Arnold at dinner, for he went into commons early, and Arnold, staying late at the pool table in the Cambridge Club—one of the two rival social and debating clubs of which the other was known as Oxford—didn’t arrive until he had gone out. Toby cleaned young Lingard’s clothes after dinner, filling Number 22 with the odor of benzine, and then hung the garments on their hangers by an open window. By that time it was nearly three and Toby went over to the gymnasium and joining the throng in the locker-room, changed into hockey togs. When he reached the rink Warren Hall was already hard at work, a dozen sturdy-looking youths with black-and-yellow stockings, sweaters and toques. Warren yielded the ice to Yardley, Toby and Frank skated to the goals and ten minutes of practice followed. To-day Toby’s heart was not in his work and about every other shot went past him into the cage. It seemed to him that he spent most of his time hooking the puck out with the blade of his stick. But he didn’t care. What Frank had said last night was probably quite true, anyway. No matter how hard he tried they’d never let him be more than a substitute this year. Even if Frank failed to make good Crowell would probably take Warren from the second to fill his place. The world was very unjust, and—

“Wake up, Tucker! Get onto your job!” cried Flagg at this point in his reflections. “I can’t play point and goal too, you know!”

So Toby tapped his stick on the ice, crouched and gave a very good imitation of a goal-tend with his mind on the game. The machinations of the forwards were foiled, Toby stopping the waist-high shot with his body and whisking the puck out of the way before Gladwin could reach it. But the next charge was more successful, although the shot was an easy one, and possibly it was well for Toby’s reputation as a coming goal-tend that the referee, a Greenburg High School teacher, blew his whistle about that time. Toby and the other substitutes skated to the boards, climbed over, donned their coats and ranged themselves on the benches. The two teams assembled about the referee and listened to his warnings and the rival captains watched the fall of the coin. Warren Hall, winning the toss, took the south goal. The players skated to position. For Yardley, Frank Lamson was at goal, Framer at point, Halliday at cover point, Crumbie at right center, Captain Crowell at left center, Arnold Deering at right end and Rose at left end. Jim Rose’s return to the first line-up was accepted on the bench as evidence that he had proved his right to hold the position for the rest of the season. Crowell and a tall black-and-yellow stockinged youth faced off, the whistles blew and the game began.

Warren Hall started a march toward the Yardley goal at the outset, but the right center was so slow on his skates that the rest of the forward line were all offside before the middle of the rink was reached. The puck was stopped, but Warren again secured it and her big cover point once more started down the center toward the opponent’s cage. Captain Crowell intercepted him, however, and took the puck away, and then, keeping a straight course with his team-mates abreast, he skated down to the black-and-yellow goal and shot through the outer defense for the first tally. Crowell had made no attempt to fool the defenders and his success was due to the fact that the Warren Hall goal-tend had the puck hidden from him by his skates. Some three minutes later Yardley caged the disk again after a very pretty exhibition of team work by Captain Crowell and Jim Rose. Crowell carried the puck down the ice and passed it to Rose near the Warren Hall goal. Rose slid it back to Crowell and the latter snapped it in. Yardley’s cheers, however, were quickly stilled, for a forward pass had been detected and the tally was not allowed.

Subsequent to this disappointment Yardley tried hard to score, but were unable to do so because of the stubborn defense of the black-and-yellow goal-tend, who during the ensuing ten minutes made some really remarkable stops. On one occasion Arnold Deering broke through and had nothing between him and the net but the goal-tend. The latter came out and made a neat stop, the puck bounding away from his leg-guard. Had there been another Yardley player on hand to take a shot at that moment the home team would have had another goal to her credit. The Warren cover point started another of his bull-dog rushes, and, after spilling Ted Halliday head-over-heels, himself came to grief when he bumped Framer and went sprawling along the ice to bring up with a crash against the boards. The game slowed up after that and the referee had to warn both teams against loafing. The first period ended with the score 1 to 0 in Yardley’s favor. Thus far the Blue had shown far better offensive and defensive playing, save, perhaps, in the matter of goal-tend. Frank Lamson had had but six chances and none of them had been difficult, thanks to Halliday and Framer. Yardley had lost several opportunities to score by slowing up near goal. Crumbie and Rose both showed a tendency to hesitate when a quick shot would have scored, and all save Captain Crowell showed the need of practice in shooting.

When the second period began Warren again scored the puck at the face-off and took the offensive. She at once invaded Yardley territory, but the man with the puck was “knifed” by Halliday and Framer. The puck went up and down the rink, with neither team showing much in the way of team-play. A scrimmage in front of the Warren Hall cage gave Arnold his chance to shoot the disk past the goal-tend, but again a forward pass was called and again Yardley had to swallow her disappointment. Shortly after that Crumbie was sent off for one minute for loafing, and Warren Hall tried desperately to penetrate the Yardley outer guard, but lost the puck after every rush. Crumbie came back with instructions from Coach Loring to keep the puck away from the Yardley goal. With five minutes of the final period left, the play became fast and furious, Yardley confining herself to the defensive. A black-and-yellow forward was sent off for tripping. Halliday stopped a long shot in front of his position and evaded the Warren Hall players to the net. But his shot went three feet wide. Warren got together with the return of the penalized player and showed a brief flash of team-work, taking the puck down to her opponent’s goal and finally slamming a shot at Lamson. Frank caught the puck with his hand, dropped it and flicked it aside. It bounded off a skate and the Warren right center was on it like a flash. A quick lift and the puck shot into the cage, passing between Frank Lamson’s body and the side of the net. Had Frank shifted himself four inches he would have made the stop, but it all happened so suddenly that he was caught unawares. The period ended with the score tied.

After a five-minute rest the teams went back to it again for a “sudden death” period, the first team scoring to win. Gladwin went in for Crumbie and Casement for Deering, and Warren Hall tried a new cover point. All kinds of chances were taken by both sevens, but to no avail. Crowell had two opportunities to bring the game to an end, but he failed to produce a tally. Once he reached the net unchecked but lost his balance and was unable to shoot. A second time his try was neatly stopped by the goal-tend. Had he followed his shot then he might still have secured a tally, but he swung to the right and the rebounding puck was slashed aside by the point. Darkness made it almost impossible to see the puck now, and when, at the end of nine minutes, a flurry of snow began to fall the referee blew his whistle and brought the game to a disappointing and indecisive end.

Toby took his way back to the gymnasium through the snowy twilight with the rest. Personally he was less concerned with the disappointing outcome of the game than with the loss of his money. Of course he had wanted Yardley to win, but there are more important things in life than a hockey victory, and one of them is losing six dollars and twenty-five cents when that amount has been earned by hard labor and represents something very much like a small fortune. Every one else was talking at the top of his voice in the locker room and proving, at least to his own satisfaction, that, in spite of the final scores, the contest rightfully belonged to Yardley.

“I wish Ted Halliday would fix up a return game with them,” said Framer earnestly. “That’s what I wish.”

“That referee chap was crazy in the head like an onion,” proclaimed Simpson, who had been detached from the second team to take Dunphy’s place. “Every time we shot a goal he called offside on us.”

“Oh, I guess he was all right,” said Jim Rose. “I know for a fact that Cap was offside that first time when I passed to him. There’s no use growling at the referee, Simp.”

Toby waited around a few minutes for Arnold, but when he discovered him talking with Frank Lamson, still only partly dressed, he made his way out and walked over to Whitson alone. Back in Number 22, he searched for the missing box for the fifth or sixth time. A half-hearted attempt to polish up his morrow’s algebra was interrupted by the six o’clock bell and he went down to commons.

The occupants of Table 14 had recovered their spirits, if they had lost them, and were very merry that evening. Or most of them were. Toby was not. Toby satisfied a healthy hunger in almost uninterrupted silence and viewed life gloomily. Supper was half over when Arnold came in. Gladwin at once started a discussion of the game and he and Arnold, who seldom agreed on any subject under the sun, were soon at it across the board. Gladwin was a bit cocky by reason of having been sent in in the overtime period and was more than ever inclined to think his own opinions about right.

“We had the game sewed up until Lamson made that rotten fluke,” he declared. “Gee, a child could have stopped that shot! The puck wasn’t even going fast!”

“I don’t believe any fellow would have stopped it,” answered Arnold stoutly. “I was right there and I saw it. Frank whisked it to the right and it hit off some one’s skate and a Warren chap had a clean path to the net. It was all done in a second and Frank didn’t have time to get into position again.”

“Piffle! He was standing right by the left post when the shot was made,” returned Gladwin. “If he had kept his eye on the puck he’d have seen it and stopped it with his body. The trouble was he lost sight of it. I tell you, if you’re going to play goal—”

“Oh, you make me tired,” said Arnold shortly. “If a goal-tend could stop every shot no one would ever win a game!”

“I don’t expect him to stop every shot, but when it comes to an easy one like that—”

“It wasn’t an easy one, I tell you. It may have looked easy to you sitting on the bench—”

“It sure did! And it looked easy to every one else except you and Lamson, I guess. You saw it, Tucker. Did it look to you to be a hard shot to stop?”

Toby hesitated an instant. As a matter of fact, he considered Frank Lamson’s failure to make the stop quite excusable, but he wasn’t feeling very kindly toward Frank, nor toward Arnold either. “It looked pretty soft to me,” he answered.

“Sure!” said Gladwin, triumphantly. “That’s just what it was, soft!”

“Maybe you’ll have a chance to stop some of those ‘soft’ ones,” said Arnold crossly to Toby. “Then we’ll see how well you can do it.”

“I’ll bet he’d have stopped that one,” said Gladwin. “What do you say, Warren?”

The second team goal shrugged. “I wasn’t in position to see the shot,” he said. “But I know it’s a mighty easy thing to criticize a goal-tend, Glad. Some of you fellows who think it’s so easy had better get out there sometime and try a few!”

“That’s right,” agreed Arnold. “You have a go at it sometime, Glad. I’ll bet you wouldn’t be so critical of others then.”

“That’s no argument. I’m not a goal. Lamson is, or pretends to be, and—”

“Chuck it, Glad,” advised Jack Curran. “Lamson did the best he could, I guess. What’s the good of throwing the harpoon into him? You wouldn’t like it yourself, would you?”

“Oh, well, what does Arn want to pretend that Lamson’s the finest goal-tend in the world for?” grumbled Gladwin. “I haven’t got anything against Lamson, only—”

“Well, quit knocking him then,” retorted Arnold. “I don’t say he’s a wonder. I say he’s doing the best he knows how, and when a fellow does that—”

“Angels can’t do more,” said Homer Wilkins, soothingly. “Let’s talk about something else for a minute. I’m a bit fed up on Lamson.”

Toby pushed back his chair and Arnold looked up. “Wait for me, Toby, will you?” he asked.

“I’ve got some work to do,” answered Toby stiffly.

Arnold shrugged. “Oh, all right. I just wanted to give you this. Catch!” A crumpled envelope fell to the table with a tinkle in front of Will Curran, and the latter passed it on to Toby.

“What is it?” asked Toby.

“Money or something. Frank asked me to give it to you this noon and I forgot all about it.”

“Oh! Thanks.” Toby dropped the envelope in his pocket and turned away. Homer Wilkins smiled at his plate and Kendall and young Curran exchanged winks. Toby’s jealousy of Frank Lamson was no longer a secret. Arnold caught the wink, flushed, scowled and blamed Toby for the moment’s embarrassment he felt. On the way upstairs Toby regretted, just as he usually did, his churlishness, and hoped that Arnold would overlook it and come up to Number 22 later. He wished that he hadn’t taken sides with Gladwin, too. As little as he liked Frank Lamson, he thought that Frank had played a very good, steady game that afternoon and deserved credit. He felt that he owed Frank an apology, which did not tend to make him any more satisfied with himself. Up in his room, he pulled the envelope from his pocket and emptied the contents into his palm. A half, two quarters and a five-cent piece lay there. Frank had paid in full, and Toby started to find his memorandum book and scratch off the debt. But his hand paused on its way to his vest pocket and he stepped swiftly to the light and peered curiously at the coins in his palm. An expression of amazement came to his face. Dropping all but one twenty-five cent piece on the table, he took that between his fingers and examined it, for an instant incredulously, finally with satisfaction.

The only apparent point of difference between that quarter and the other one was that just over the date the letters “E. D.” had been punched into the silver. The D was indistinct, but the first letter had cut deep into the coin, as though some one had struck the cutting die an uneven blow. The letters were about half again as large as the numerals in the date, large enough to attract the attention of any one glancing at that side of the coin. There was nothing startling in the presence of the initials. Toby had frequently been possessed of coins having letters stamped or scratched on them. Nor was he at all concerned as to the identity of “E. D.” What accounted for his interest was the fact that over a month before, in New York City, he had received that identical quarter in change at a dry goods store and that as late as twenty-four hours since it had reposed in a little paste-board box in his second bureau drawer.