Toby rather dreaded meeting Frank Lamson after that game. Now that he had conquered, and something told him that, barring accidents, he was certain of the goal position for the rest of the season, the victory seemed much less glorious. In spite of himself, for he tried to be stern and judicial, he was sorry for Frank. Of course Frank didn’t deserve any sympathy; no fellow did who was guilty of what Frank was guilty of; but, just the same, the sympathy was there and Toby had to sort of put his heel on it every now and then to keep it from rising up and making him uncomfortable. If only Frank hadn’t been so—so sort of decent of late, it would have been easier! But when a fellow seeks you out and shows plainly that he likes to talk to you, why, it’s hard not to entertain a sneaking liking for him! And, besides that, Frank was Arnold’s friend, and in spite of the fact that everything was quite all over between Toby and Arnold and they were never, never going to speak to each other again, Toby still had a weak dislike of doing anything to hurt Arnold’s feelings. Of course it was silly and all that, but there it was! On the whole, Toby wasn’t nearly as happy that Saturday evening as he should have been, considering the fact that the whole school was talking about him playing and giving him every bit of credit that was to be given for staving off a defeat at the hands of Rock Hill.

The meeting which he dreaded didn’t take place until the next day. It was rumored that evening that Frank Lamson had been taken sick and had had to leave the rink, which accounted for the fact that he hadn’t been available when wanted to substitute Toby. As no one guessed the emotions of anger and outrage which had prompted Frank’s retirement, the explanation was accepted at face value. It is possible that Frank, having recovered his temper, made that explanation to Mr. Loring. I don’t know as to that. But I do know that Frank was back at practice on Monday very much as though nothing had happened.

It was Monday noon when Toby, taking a short-cut from the village, encountered Frank and Arnold on the foot-path that leads up the Prospect. He didn’t see them until he was nearly on them and it was then too late to turn back or avoid them. Toby, conscious of the blood flowing to his cheeks, would have nodded and muttered a greeting and gone on, but Frank was of another mind. Frank didn’t look particularly amiable, possibly because he had been in the midst of an indignant tirade against Coach Loring, and Toby wanted very, very much to keep right on. He couldn’t, though, because Frank deliberately barred his path.

“Hello, Toby,” he said growlingly. “I suppose you’re feeling pretty big to-day, eh? A regular hero and all that, what?”

“No, I’m not feeling big at all,” he answered. Arnold had drawn back a step or two and was looking down the hill. “I heard you were sick yesterday, Frank. I hope you’re all right to-day.”

“I was sick of the way I was treated,” answered the other sharply. “I haven’t got anything against you, Toby. It wasn’t your fault, I guess. You tried to get it away from me, and you had a right to. That’s nothing. But that fool Loring didn’t have any right to yank me out of there without saying anything, did he? I guess I’d been playing pretty good hockey, hadn’t I? How would you have felt about it if they’d treated you like that?”

“I—I suppose I shouldn’t have liked it,” murmured Toby uncomfortably, embarrassedly conscious of Arnold’s presence.

“I’ll bet you wouldn’t! That’s no way to treat fellows. I’ve done good work all winter for them, played the best I knew how, and that’s what I get for it! They just drop me without a word! Crowell says that Loring’s the whole push now and that he didn’t have anything to do with it. He’s afraid I’ll make trouble for him, I guess. And maybe I will, too.”

“I dare say he will put you back again to-morrow,” ventured Toby not very truthfully.

“Yes, he will—not! I wouldn’t go back! I’m through! Arn’s been talking about duty to the school and all that rot. I’ll bet he wouldn’t think so much about that if they’d dropped him like a hot potato!”

Toby tried to edge past. “I’m sorry, Frank,” he murmured. “Of course, I wanted the place and tried for it, but—”

Arnold sniffed and spoke for the first time. “Don’t be a hypocrite,” he sneered. “You’re just awfully sorry, aren’t you? All cut up about it, I guess!”

“I am sorry,” declared Toby stoutly. “It isn’t my fault if Mr. Loring—”

“That’s a coward’s trick, to hide behind some one else,” broke in Arnold.

“Meaning that I’m a coward?” demanded Toby, hotly.

“You may make it mean what you like!”

“Oh, come now, Arn,” Frank put in soothingly, “Toby’s all right. I’m not saying anything, am I?”

“That’s twice you’ve called me a coward,” said Toby, his blue eyes flashing. “You’ll take it back, Arnold, before I ever speak to you again!” He brushed past Frank and went on hurriedly up the path, deaf to the latter’s appeal to “wait a minute!”

It was all through with and finished now, he reflected miserably. He had stood from Arnold just all any fellow could stand! A coward, was he? Well, he would show them! He didn’t know just how he was to show them, but that would come later. Until Arnold begged his pardon he would never speak to him or have a thing to do with him! It wasn’t until he was safe behind the closed door of Number 22, with his eyes a little bit wet for some reason, that he recalled Doctor Collins’ advice. Then he told himself ruefully: “It’s just like I said. The trouble with controlling your temper is that you don’t remember about it until it’s too late!”

March approached with a week of severely cold weather during which the river froze nearly eight inches thick and at night cracked like the report of a pistol. No more snow came and the shrill north-west winds howling against Toby’s windows forced him to wrap his legs in his overcoat when he sat down to study. Hockey went on unremittingly, but there were some days when it was cruelly cold on the rink and playing goal was none too pleasant. Toby was thankful for those warm gloves then. The school hockey championship was decided on the river, the Second Class Team winning the final contest handily from the First. Toby retained his place as first-choice goal-tend and Frank Lamson made a fine pretense of indifference and treated Toby as good-naturedly as ever. But it wasn’t difficult to see that Frank still had hopes of winning his position back, for he played hard and earnestly. The morning practice with Grover Beech came to an end two days before the Greenburg High School game on the advice of Coach Loring.

“You’re getting enough work in the afternoons now, Tucker,” he said, “and there’s such a thing as overdoing it.”

Toby wasn’t very sorry, for the contests of skill between him and Beech had become one-sided, since Toby learned more every day and Beech seemed incapable of further progress in the gentle art of shooting goals. With the yielding of full authority to Mr. Loring by Captain Crowell things soon began to look brighter on the rink. The fellows, bothered not a little before by having two masters, settled down to following the coach’s directions with far more enthusiasm. There were no other changes made in the line-up, for Casement had failed to show any better work than Arnold Deering at right wing. Dan Henry had long since given up hope of returning to the game that winter and was helping coach the second team goal-tends and occasionally refereed the practice games. Toby threw himself heart and soul into learning and retaining his captured position. It was well for him that he had something so absorbing, for he was not very happy just now, and hockey and lessons—for whatever happened he had to maintain a good class standing—kept his thoughts off his quarrel with Arnold.

The Greenburg High School game was played in Greenburg and the return match was an easy matter for Yardley. Toby played most of the game, and then gave way to Frank Lamson. Coach Loring began to put in his substitutes early in the second period and when the contest ended, with the score 11 to 3 in Yardley’s favor, not a first-string man was on the ice. All things considered, the substitutes did very well, scoring four goals against Greenburg’s really excellent defense. That contest was the last before the final game with Broadwood and only four work-outs remained. The reports from the rival school proved pretty conclusively that Broadwood had one of the best sevens in the history of the dual league, and it was thoroughly realized at Yardley that if the Pennimore Cup was to return to the trophy room there, the Blue would have to put up a better game than she had done so far all season, but Captain Crowell was hopeful and Coach Loring fairly radiated optimism, and the players took their cue from their leaders. A month before no one would have seriously predicted a Yardley victory, but now the tendency was rather toward over-confidence. And over-confidence, as we know, is a dangerous thing.

Toby managed to contract a slight cold the Saturday of the Greenburg game, probably because he had too little to do to allow of his keeping warm, and it got worse on Sunday night and kept him out of practice Monday. Nor was it very much better the next day, although he reported for work and played through the first period and about ten minutes of the second. The following morning he felt, to use his own expression, just like a stuffed owl, and he had to drag himself to recitations and between them sat wrapped in sweater and coat in his room and tried to see how many of his small store of handkerchiefs he could use up! After dinner, a tasteless meal to Toby, he sought the school doctor and was appropriately dosed and instructed to keep away from the rink that afternoon. “Wrap yourself up warmly,” said the doctor, “and stay out of doors, but don’t get overheated. Fresh air is the best cure for a cold, my boy.”

So Toby got himself excused from practice and, after his last recitation, donned his sweater and tied a muffler around his throat and went out for a walk. It wasn’t a very invigorating sort of day, for on Sunday the weather had changed and for two days a mild south-westerly breeze had been blowing in from the Sound, causing dire apprehension on the part of the hockey men. Already the river below Loon Island showed stretches of open water and ice-cakes were floating down past the bridges and into the unfrozen Sound. It was a moist, cloudy afternoon and Toby’s feet lagged as he struck down-hill toward the little village. Wissining had one store, a general emporium that sold everything a fellow didn’t want and nothing he did. Still, one could buy pencils there, and Toby needed one, and it didn’t make much difference in which direction he walked. After the purchase he went on along the road that parallels the track and eventually leads to the footbridge to Greenburg. When he got in sight of the river he was surprised to see to what extent the ice had broken up since yesterday, or even since morning. Unless the weather grew cold again within the next two days that Broadwood game would never be played next Saturday.

Toby stood on the bridge a few moments watching the ice-cakes swirl under, turning and dipping, or pile up against the piers, and then, mindful of the doctor’s instruction, he took the road along the river and wandered down toward the Point. The river widens as it nears the Sound, and to-day, with the tide running out hard and strong and the ice-cakes moving seaward it was worth watching. He had the road pretty much to himself, for Wissining is not a populous village and the day was not such as to attract many folks out of doors, and he plodded on through melting snow and rotting ice and plain brown mud until the big wrought-iron gates of the Pennimore estate blocked his further progress. From that point he could look westward along the Sound for several miles, and he paused a minute and watched a schooner dipping her way along under the brisk wind, and a coal steamer churning slowly eastward. Then he turned back and retraced his steps, since there was no alternate road, and had reached a point near the little ferry house, long since abandoned to time and weather, when a faint cry fell on his ears.

Toby looked about him and saw no one save a man driving a wagon across the bridge nearly a quarter of a mile upstream. Across the river were a few shanties and although there was no one in sight it was probable that the shout had come from there. Toby went on his way, not quite satisfied, however, for the cry, as faint as it had been, had sounded like an appeal for help. And then, before he had taken a dozen steps, it came again, louder this time and seemingly closer at hand. Toby’s gaze swept the opposite shore, traveled up the river—

What was that between him and the bridge? A boat? No, it didn’t look like a boat. It was a darkish spot apparently in the water, but surely no one would be silly enough to attempt to swim there! And then he realized. In the middle of the river, turning and dipping, floated an ice-cake and on it, stretched face-downward, was the form of a boy! Hardly crediting his sight, Toby stood and stared. But there was no deception. The ice-cake and its imperiled burden was floating nearer and nearer and the cries, shrill and terror-stricken, came plainly now across the water. Now and then the frail expanse of ice tipped dangerously and Toby could see the boy strive frantically to adjust his body to the slant, to keep the ice-cake from turning over. One hand clutched desperately at an edge and the other was stretched on the slippery surface. Straight for the open water of the Sound it floated, and, as Toby well knew, the boy could never stay on it a moment after it reached the rough water. Toby’s first act was entirely involuntary. He rushed to the edge of the embankment, slipping and tripping on the ice, put his hands to his mouth and sent his voice across the space.

“All right!” he shouted. “Hold on! I’m coming!”

But that was easier promised than performed, as he realized the next moment with a sinking heart. At least sixty yards would separate him from the ice-cake when it floated opposite. If he risked it and succeeded, he might crawl out on the stationary ice along the shore and cut that distance down by half, but even then he would be no better off. He had no rope to throw and could not have thrown it so far in any event. To swim would be foolhardy, for even if he managed to make his way through the loose ice as far as the boy he would never be able to bring him ashore. A boat, then, was the only hope, and not a boat was in sight on his side of the river. Nearer and nearer came the ice-cake with its living cargo, colliding with other cakes, swaying and twisting and dipping, every moment threatening to upheave one side or another and drop its burden into the icy waters. Toby thought desperately, looked helplessly about him. And then his gaze fell on the little dismantled ferry house and he raced down the bank toward it, hoping against hope.

The door on the water side was half off, sprawling on its rusted hinges, and at first glance the dim interior seemed empty. But at first glance only, for, as Toby’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom, they descried a boat, tilted on its side, and what looked like the handle of an oar protruding over the edge. How he pulled that skiff from the old ferry house to the landing and then over yards of creaking, swaying ice he never knew. But somehow he did it, and somehow, just as he and the boat sank through yielding ice, he managed to scramble into it, to seize one of the oars and push off. Rowing was out of the question as yet, for his strength was spent and the ice, bobbing about in huge fragments, prevented his dipping the blades in water. But, sobbing for very weariness, he knelt and pushed, prodding at an edge or a crevice, and so at last made his way into clearer water and then looked anxiously upstream.

For an instant his heart sank leadenly, for the boy was nowhere in sight. He was too late! But the next moment he saw him, already abreast and moving fast toward the mouth of the river. Toby, with a gasp of relief, fitted the oars to the ancient thole-pins and rowed his hardest.

He was a good hand in a boat, was Toby, otherwise he would never have won that race through the ice-floes. The boat leaked like a sieve and he wondered long before he reached his goal whether it would keep afloat long enough to reach shore again. Ice-cakes swept down against the skiff and fairly staggered it. When he saw them in time Toby tried to fend them off with an oar, but rowing was the main necessity, for the boy on the ice-cake was going fast, and he must take his chances with the floes. For many minutes or so it seemed to Toby, the skiff failed to gain, but at last it caught the current in the middle of the stream and then, with Toby pulling as he had never pulled before, it began to gain. The water was already getting rougher and every moment the boy’s predicament became more perilous. Only once did Toby waste precious breath on encouragement. Then he shouted over his shoulder:

“Coming! Hold on a little longer!”

Followed some desperate minutes and then victory! Toby avoided a floe many yards in diameter, letting it pass while he fended the skiff away from it, and then dug the blades of his oars. An instant later the side of the skiff grated against the ice-cake and Toby pushed an oar across its surface. “Catch hold,” he panted, “and pull yourself toward me!”

The boy obeyed, but Toby realized the courage required to release the hold of those half-frozen fingers on the cake of ice. The boy grasped the oar and, still face-downwards, moved cautiously, fearfully toward the skiff. As his weight moved toward the edge, the ice-cake, scarcely three yards across at the widest place, began to dip.

“Faster!” cried Toby. “Grab the side of the boat!”

Over turned the ice-cake and the boy’s body settled with it into the water, but one straining hand was on the gunwale and Toby had secured a tight hold on his jacket. The skiff careened as the ice-cake slowly righted again, Toby pulled with every ounce of strength remaining in his body and, somehow, the boy came sprawling, inch by inch, into the boat to lie finally face-up in six inches of water on the bottom while Toby, scarcely knowing what he did, fixed his oars again and pulled mechanically for the shore. And as he labored with lungs bursting, muscles aching and eyes half-closed the perfectly absurd thought came to him that Tommy Lingard’s clothes would certainly need pressing to-morrow!