"Oh, don't stop! Don't stop it for me," cried Hughie, gripping the master's arm. "Help me up and take me back."The master swore a fierce oath.
"We'll do it, my boy. You're a trump. Here, Don," he called aloud, "we'll let Hughie keep goal for a little," and they ran Hughie back to the goal on one skate.
"You go out, Thomas," gasped Hughie. "Don't talk. We've only five minutes.""They have broken his leg," said the master, with a sob in his voice.
"Nothing wrong, I hope," said Dan, skating up.
"No; play the game," said the master, fiercely. His black eyes were burning with a deep, red glow.
"Is it hurting much?" asked Thomas, lingering about Hughie.
"Oh, you just bet! But don't wait. Go on! Go on down! You've got to get this game!"Thomas glanced at the foot hanging limp, and then at the white but resolute face. Then saying with slow, savage emphasis, "The brute beast! As sure as death I'll do for him," he skated off to join the forward line.
It was the Front knock-off from goal. There was no plan of attack, but the Twentieth team, looking upon the faces of the master and Thomas, needed no words of command.
The final round was shot, short, sharp, fierce. A long drive from Farquhar Bheg sent the ball far up into the Twentieth territory.
It was a bad play, for it gave Craven and Thomas their chance.
"Follow me close, Thomas," cried the master, meeting the ball and setting off like a whirlwind.
Past the little Reds, through the centers, and into the defense line he flashed, followed hard by Thomas. In vain Hec Ross tried to check, Craven was past him like the wind. There remained only Dan and Jimmie Ben. A few swift strides, and the master was almost within reach of Dan's club. With a touch of the ball to Thomas he charged into his waiting foe, flung him aside as he might a child, and swept on.
"Take the man, Thomas," he cried, and Thomas, gathering himself up in two short, quick strikes, dashed hard upon Jimmie Ben, and hurled him crashing to the ice.
"Take that, you brute, you!" he said, and followed after Craven.
Only Farquhar Bheg was left.
"Take no chances," cried Craven again. "Come on!" and both of them sweeping in upon the goal-keeper, lifted him clear through the goal and carried the ball with them.
"Time!" called the umpire. The great game was won.
Then, before the crowd had realized what had happened, and before they could pour in upon the ice, Craven skated back toward Jimmie Ben.
"The game is over," he said, in a low, fierce tone. "You cowardly blackguard, you weren't afraid to hit a boy, now stand up to a man, if you dare."Jimmie Ben was no coward. Dropping his club he came eagerly forward, but no sooner had he got well ready than Craven struck him fair in the face, and before he could fall, caught him with a straight, swift blow on the chin, and lifting him clear off his skates, landed him back on his head and shoulders on the ice, where he lay with his toes quivering.
"Serve him right," said Hec Ross.
There was no more of it. The Twentieth crowds went wild with joy and rage, for their great game was won, and the news of what had befallen their captain had got round.
"He took his city, though, Mrs. Murray," said the master, after the great supper in the manse that evening, as Hughie lay upon the sofa, pale, suffering, but happy. "And not only one, but a whole continent of them, and," he added, "the game as well."With sudden tears and a little break in her voice, the mother said, looking at her boy, "It was worth while taking the city, but I fear the game cost too much.""Oh, pshaw, mother," said Hughie, "it's only one bone, and I tell you that final round was worth a leg."
