There’s a saying to the effect that “clothes make the man.” It isn’t true, as you and I both know very well. And it is probably equally untrue that togs make the hockey player. And yet—well, those new leg-guards and those new gloves certainly had an effect on Toby. Or something did. On Thursday before the Rock Hill College game, which was, with the exception of the final contest with Broadwood, considered the most important event on the hockey schedule, Toby performed so creditably that Captain Crowell sought Coach Loring afterwards for counsel.

“That kid Tucker’s playing pretty nearly as well as Lamson, sir, don’t you think?” he asked. They were walking up to the gymnasium behind the others and Mr. Loring was making the boards creak as he stamped his feet to warm them. “The way he played to-day was corking, I thought.” Crowell’s admiration sounded grudging and the coach glanced at him speculatingly before he spoke.

“What have you got against Tucker, Crowell?” he asked.

“Not a thing,” answered Crowell in surprise. “What made you think I had, sir?”

“Well, for a week and more Tucker has played a bit better than Lamson and you haven’t so much as mentioned it—or him. I began to think that possibly you had some personal—er—dislike, Crowell.”

“If I had,” answered the captain a trifle stiffly, “I wouldn’t let it influence me, sir.”

“Glad to hear it,” was the untroubled response. “If you want my opinion, Tucker’s a better goal than Lamson right now and he will get better every day.”

Crowell was silent for a minute. Then: “You think we’d better use him Saturday, sir?” he asked.

“By all means. He needs the experience, Crowell. If he doesn’t fill the bill, put in Lamson, but by all means give Tucker a chance to get some work against an outside team. You never can tell what any player is good for until he’s run up against some one beside his own crowd.”

“It sounds as though you’d already picked him for the Broadwood game,” said Crowell doubtfully.

Mr. Loring smiled. “I had, but you needn’t unless you want to. I’m not interfering with your choice of players, Crowell. I told you I didn’t intend to when I started in. It would be a lot easier for me if I did do that. A coach who hasn’t absolute control always works at a disadvantage. But I realized that you didn’t particularly want me here this year and that it wouldn’t do to antagonize you.”

Crowell colored. “I don’t think you have any reason to say that, Mr. Loring,” he stammered. “I’ve been very glad to have you.”

“Rather than no one, yes,” replied Mr. Loring dryly. “Possibly you have wondered why I ‘butted in’ this winter. I’ll tell you. A number of us Old Boys got to talking things over one afternoon in the club in New York and the question of a hockey coach came up. I was asked if I was going to help again this year and said that I had had no request; that since we had lost to Broadwood last year I thought that probably the sentiment here was in favor of a change. We all felt that things ought to be pulled together and we got in touch with Mr. Bendix by telephone. He told us that you were looking for a coach but hadn’t found any one. Nothing more was done then. That was in December. I think about the tenth. During vacation Mr. Bendix happened into the club one day and the subject of hockey came up again. He said that they were still without a coach and that he thought it would be well for some of us to take the matter up and send some one down there. Two or three old players were approached, but none of them could give the time. For that matter, I didn’t feel that I could spare the time myself, but there seemed to be no one else and the others insisted and so I came. I might have taken everything right out of your hands, Crowell, and put myself in full command, as I was last season. Faculty advised me to, but I knew you well enough to realize that the only way we could turn out any sort of a team was for you and I to pull together, my boy. You didn’t want me and you wouldn’t have had me if you could have found some one else. I didn’t much care whether you wanted me or not, however. We grads want good teams here and we want the old school to win her games. My interest begins and ends there. So far you and I have got along very well, but it’s been mainly because I’ve taken pains not to interfere a bit more than has been absolutely necessary. Now we’ve come to a situation that demands a sort of a show-down, I guess. Suppose you tell me frankly why you dislike the idea of having Tucker play goal instead of Lamson.”

“I haven’t a thing against Tucker, sir,” replied Crowell slowly, evidently choosing his words with care, “unless it’s his age. He’s pretty young to be a first team goal-tend, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but if he can play the position it doesn’t seem to me that his age has much to do with it. What’s the rest of it?”

“That’s all, Mr. Loring, really,” insisted Crowell. “I guess that the fact of the matter is that I—I just got used to the idea of a certain fellow playing a position and hate to think of changing.”

“That’s a bad idea, Crowell. Every team is likely to have some dead-wood in it that needs cutting out. You want the seven best players in there that you can find, irrespective of age or social affiliations or anything else. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, sir, it is. Is there any other dead-wood? Have you any other fellows in mind?”

“No, I think not. I’d like to see Casement get a good, thorough trial at right wing, for Deering’s been playing pretty erratically of late, but I’m not prepared to say that Casement is a better man. As to Tucker, I’d advise using him harder, giving him a fairer show, Crowell. If he is really better than Lamson let’s find it out. We want the best man at goal on Saturday and two weeks from Saturday that we can discover. Personally I believe Tucker’s the man, but I may be wrong. Is Lamson a particular friend of yours?”

Crowell frowned. “No, he’s not,” he answered shortly.

“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” said the coach soothingly. “I only wondered if you were hesitating about hurting his feelings. If you are, you might let me attend to the matter. When it comes to building a team they all look alike to me.”

Crowell made no answer for a minute. They had reached the gymnasium and had paused in the upstairs hall. Finally the captain looked up frankly, if a trifle embarrassedly, at the coach. “I guess, sir,” he said, “you don’t want to turn out a winning team any more than I do. And I think it will be best if you just—just take charge of everything after this. I suppose I’m sort of dunder-headed about some things. If I choose a fellow for a position I’m likely to let him stay there rather than acknowledge that I’m wrong even to myself, and that’s mighty poor management. I’m sorry if I’ve acted like an idiot all the season, sir—”

“You haven’t, Crowell. I didn’t mean to convey the impression that I was dissatisfied. Everything has gone along quite smoothly, my boy. If there have been mistakes we’ve shared them. But I’m not going to pretend that I’m not mighty glad to take full charge, because, quite frankly, I think you’ll play your position a lot better if you don’t have too many—er—too many cares of state on your mind! Suppose that after this we get in the way of meeting after practice, say in your room, or in mine if you don’t mind walking down to the village, and going over things together. That seem feasible to you?”

“Yes, sir, I think it would be a mighty good plan,” answered Captain Crowell. “I guess it would have been better for the team if we’d done that long ago, Mr. Loring.”

“Possibly. But we won’t worry ourselves with regrets. We’ll look forward, Crowell, and see if we can’t pull that team together so that it will everlastingly wallop Broadwood two weeks from next Saturday! I dare say that what I should have done is had this talk with you a month ago. But never mind that now. I’ll drop around to-morrow evening—I guess we’ve said all that’s to be said for the present—and we’ll plan things for Saturday. Good-night, Crowell.”

Mr. Loring held out his hand and Crowell grasped it tightly.

“Good-night, sir,” he said, “and thanks. I’m not nearly so afraid of the Broadwood game as I was! You do think we can win it, don’t you, sir?”

“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.

On the bench, one of a half-dozen other coated and blanketed figures, sat Frank Lamson. Frank was still struggling with the surprise that had overwhelmed him three minutes before when Coach Loring, calling the line-up, had announced the name of Tucker instead of Lamson. Frank was still not quite sure the coach had not made a mistake! Only, if he had, why didn’t he discover it? And what was Orson Crowell thinking of that he hadn’t entered a protest against such absurdity? Frank stole a wondering glance along the length of the bench to where Coach Loring sat. The coach was looking intently at the game and evidently saw nothing wrong. Slowly, as the figures dashed up and down and in and out and the ring of steel and the clash of sticks and the cries of the players filled the air, it was borne to Frank that Toby had superseded him, that Coach Loring had done what he had done intentionally, that Crowell had connived at it, that, in short, he, Frank Lamson, was only a second-string man! Surprise grew to incredulity and incredulity to dismay. He wondered what the fellows on the bench with him thought of it, and turned to see. But they were all following the flying puck absorbedly, evidently with no thought for the stupendous wrong that had been committed! Indignation surged over him. Anger filled his soul. So they thought they could treat him that way and get away with it, did they? They thought they could oust him without a word of explanation and put a mere fifteen-year-old, inexperienced kid in his place? Well, they’d find out their mistake! No one could treat him like a yellow pup, by jingo! He’d show them so, too! Superbly he arose from the bench, dropped his blanket with a gesture of magnificent disdain and turned his back on the scene. Unfortunately, however, not a soul saw him, for at that moment Rock Hill had the puck in front of the Yardley goal and six pushing, slashing players were fighting desperately there. And no one saw him make his way off up the slope, bracing himself against the gale, for just then the referee’s whistle sounded and Rock Hill was brandishing sticks in triumph and skating, with perhaps a mere suggestion of swagger, back to her own territory. So Frank’s dramatic defiance was lost and neither Coach Loring nor Captain Crowell nor any of Frank’s companions knew that he had withdrawn in outraged dignity and left them to their fate.

The game went on again. Toby, a little pale, crouched and watched. He was hating himself for letting the puck get by a minute ago. It had been almost impossible to follow it. Sticks, feet, bodies had mingled confusedly before him. He had repelled one attempt after another with skates and stick, the goal had tilted under the surge of the struggling players, blades had whacked against his leg-guards, the world had been a maelstrom of blue legs and crimson—and then the whistle had blown and, behold, there was the puck a fair six inches past the opening! How it had got by him he never knew, but there it was, and the goal umpire had waved his hand and the tragic blast of the whistle had sounded! And Toby’s heart was filled with woe!

But there wasn’t much time to spend in regrets, for once more the Rock Hill forwards, strung out across the ice four-abreast, were bearing down on him. The puck slithered away across to the left and Arnold charged at his opponent. But a carom against the boards fooled him and the red-legged enemy secured the disk again and slid it back. Halliday missed it by an inch and he and the left center went down in a kicking heap. There was only Framer now, and the puck was but twenty feet away. Toby slid to the left, crouched, his heart beating hard.

Framer tried to intercept the pass to the right wing but only succeeded in diverting the puck to the right center. Crowell, dashing in like a whirlwind, lifted the opponent’s stick, slashed at the puck, missed it and went past. Framer was on it—had it—was off down the ice, almost free! Followed a wild scramble then. The Rock Hill cover point fell slowly back to position. Crowell fell in behind Framer and Arnold tried hard to get into place for a pass. Then the cover point dashed forward, Framer slipped the puck to the right and dodged to the left, skates grated harshly, Arnold swerved in, reached, found the disk with his stick, circled back, passed across to Crumbie—

“Shoot!” yelled Crowell.

“Shoot!” implored the spectators.

But the Rock Hill point was rushing desperately at Crumbie, his stick slashing the ice, and it was Jim Rose, coming in from the rear, who hooked the puck away just in time and, miraculously dodging the defenders in front of the cage, banged it home for Yardley’s first score.

PÆans of delight arose from around the barrier and the blue blades of the Yardley sticks waved in air. The Rock Hill goal was telling the point just how it had happened and finding comfort in explaining. Then they were off again, Rose having the puck along the boards. A pass to the center of the ice went wrong and it was the Rock Hill cover point who became the man of the moment. But his reign was brief and ended when Rose sent him sprawling into the barrier. A Rock Hill forward stole the disk and skated desperately, but there was no one to take the pass and ten yards in front of the Blue’s goal Halliday got it away and fed it down the ice. And so it went for the rest of that first period, with no more scores for either side. Twice Rock Hill threatened dangerously and eight times she shot, but only three attempts reached Toby and those were stopped without difficulty. For her part, Yardley only once came near to scoring and then the puck struck an upright and bounded away and Crowell’s attempt to cage it only sent it over the barrier into the snow.

On the whole, Toby had a fairly easy time of it during that half of the contest. It was in the second period that he found his work cut out for him, for, after the rest, Rock Hill showed that she could play hockey. Halliday was hurt in the first minute of play and Stillwell took his place. Five minutes after that Crumbie was sent off for tripping, and it was then that Rock Hill almost snatched a victory. That she didn’t was only due to the fact that Toby, looking ridiculously small but making up for his lack of bulk by his quickness, played his position like a veteran. Stillwell was not Halliday’s equal on defense, and, with Crumbie off, Rock Hill kept the puck around the Blue’s goal for what seemed hours to the goal-tend. Shot after shot was made, knocked down and brushed aside. The applause from the audience was almost continual and the shouting of the contenders made a babel through which Toby, inwardly in a wild ferment of excitement but outwardly as cool as the ice he stood on, slid from one side of the cage to the other, crouched, straightened, kicked with his skates, thrust with his stick and watched all the time with his blue eyes, never losing sight of the puck. Time and again, having shot, Rock Hill secured the disk the instant Toby thrust it aside. Yardley, minus one player, slashed and sprawled and shouted helplessly, with Crowell commanding them to “Get it out of there!” That was a wild and strenuous two minutes for Toby, but he came through with a clean slate. The scorer credited him with seven stops in that busy space of time, but Toby is still of the opinion that the scorer missed some thirty-five or forty! And then, finally, just as Crumbie tumbled over the barrier again and rushed to the rescue, Arnold pulled the puck from a Rock Hill forward and got free with it.

But there was no getting past the opponent’s outer defense now. Cover point and point had learned their lesson in the first period and, with a center playing back on defense, Yardley’s rushes never took her past the outer trenches. Toward the end of the period both teams were trying long shots and failing miserably. Casement took Arnold’s place when the latter bruised his knee against the barrier, and, just before the whistle, Flagg displaced Framer. But the period ended without another tally, the score still one to one.

Five minutes of rest, then, and back to the battle once more for two five-minute periods. Then it was that Coach Loring, deciding to relieve a very tired Toby, called for Lamson and discovered him missing. Messengers were dispatched to the gymnasium but returned to report that Frank was not to be found. Coach Loring scowled, shrugged and viewed Toby doubtfully. Then he conferred with Captain Crowell and the two put the matter up to Toby himself.

“I’ll be all right in a minute or two,” panted the boy cheerfully. “Tired? No, sir, I don’t feel tired a bit!”

Coach Loring smiled. “All right, then, you’d better try the next period anyway. If Lamson turns up we’ll let you off. Do the best you can, Tucker. We’ve fought them off so far and it would certainly be too bad to lose the game now, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, sir! I’ll stop them if it can be done, Mr. Loring.”

And then, presently, they were at it again, with the twilight fast creeping down over the scene and the half-frozen spectators once more forgetting their misery in the excitement and suspense of those two final periods. Science went to the discard now, however, and it was every man for himself. Both teams tried desperately to score by hook or by crook. Penalties came fast and furious, and at one time each team was reduced to five players! The whistle shrilled constantly for off-side plays. The puck was swept up the rink and back again. Shots from the very middle of the ice were frequently attempted and seldom rolled past the points. The players became so weary that they could scarcely keep their feet under them. Substitutes dropped over the boards and first-string players wobbled off with hanging heads and trailing sticks. And all the time Yardley at the barriers cheered and shouted and implored a victory. But it was not to be. One period ended, the teams changed their goals and the next began. Toby, finding it hard now to see the puck at any distance, screwed his eyes up and peered anxiously every minute. But only three times in the last ten minutes was his skill called into play and none of the shots which thumped against his pads was difficult to stop. At the other end of the rink, the opposing goal-tend had an even easier time, for Yardley was seldom threatening. And then, suddenly, the whistle shrilled for the last time and the game was over. And Yardley and Rock Hill gathered in two little groups in the fast-gathering darkness and limply and weakly cheered for each other. And although the Blue hadn’t won, and although she pretended to be downcast over the result, she was nevertheless secretly very well satisfied with the inconclusive contest, because, just between you and me, Rock Hill had outplayed her in every position save one. And that one position was goal.