Part 2

Taber High's great star passed the Taber bench at mid-ice and heard Lank's shrill yell as he flashed by. A grim Siddall defense formed to meet him. This time every one in the crowd knew that there would be no flinching ... that Carl was once again the Carl of old ... that he would crash through if it was humanly possible.

Smack! The collision between opposing forces and one lone, speeding figure was violent. All went down in a struggling heap and the puck skidded clear. Carl's dash had been broken up ... and Whiz Deagen, who had trailed him fiendishly, was now in possession of the puck, spinning around toward the Taber net with Taber's defense thrown out of position!

"Stop him, somebody!" screamed Taber.

Bobbing to his feet as he slid across the ice after being joltingly bumped, Carl Hemmer put on an amazing burst of speed in an effort to overtake the fast-traveling Whiz Deagen. Siddall's hockey star evaded Taber defense men as they rushed across the ice in an attempt to cut off his path to the goal. An instant later he was driving in on goalie Frank Carey who looked particularly helpless in the face of this inspired advance. Fifteen feet behind Whiz, and eating up distance with every frantic stroke, was Carl ... but too late to prevent Whiz's shot. The crowd shrieked its excitement as goalie Carey made a phenomenal stop of a vicious drive--blocking the puck with his chest. The stop, however, pulled him from the mouth of the cage, leaving it totally unprotected as the puck bounded directly in front with Whiz leaping in to take the rebound and finish his job. But, just as his stick was about to make contact with the puck, a figure slid swiftly across the ice and swept the puck to the side. Whiz tripped and fell on Carl and was carried along with him. A terrific mix-up followed with everyone but the goalies involved as the rink became a maelstrom of heart-palpitating, eye-bewildering action.

A minute of play was left as Carl Hemmer, who had suddenly become as a madman on the loose, emerged from a tangle near the sideboards, the puck riding smoothly ahead of his stick. This time the mighty Whiz Deagen was in front of him at center ice, and behind Deagen were Siddall's two defense men, in position.

"He'll never get through that pack!" murmured a Taber fan, nervously. "This looks like an overtime tie game!"

Whiz, preparing to dodge whichever direction Carl might dodge, crouched with stick across his knees. The two stars had managed to reduce each other's brilliant efforts practically to naught thus far.

Approaching his rival at top speed, Carl suddenly turned his skates sidewise and sent up a shower of ice. He veered to the left, then reversed his direction, shot the puck ahead and followed it like a demon. Whiz, lunging to his right, was unprepared for a double shift and a great cry rang out as Carl, outmaneuvering his rival drove on into Siddall's defense. He was crouching low as the defense men sought to body-check him. There was a resounding impact and both defense men left their feet, bumping jarringly to ice. Carl, brought to his knees, the puck jolted from his stick ahead of him, slid after it toward Siddall's goal where a wide-eyed goalie braced himself for the onslaught.

"It's a loose puck!" cried someone. "The goalie's going to bat it out!"

It seemed the only thing to do ... leaving his cage for the moment since no defense men could reach the scene in time to be of help. The Siddall goalie advanced several feet in front of the cage, jabbing out his stick. As he did so, Carl, still sliding in a half-sitting position, hooked out his stick and contacted the puck. The goalie swung at the black object but his stick landed atop Carl's and bounced off.

"Shoot!" begged Lank, from the bench.

And Taber's hockey star, without having time to regain his feet, skidding in close to the goal, punched the puck ahead of him with a sidearm swing, almost under the very feet of a goalie now out of position. The puck turned on edge and rolled into the cage where it snuggled in a corner of the net. The scorer's red light blazed almost simultaneous with the blazing of the timer's gun.

"It's all over!" yelled elated Taber supporters. "What a play!"

It took a moment after that for Taber fans to appreciate that their hockey team had completed an undefeated season ... and that one great hockey star had demonstrated his superiority over another star, almost equally great.

"Awfully sorry you had to get hurt on account of me!" a contrite Carl Hemmer was apologizing the next moment as he clasped Lank's hand.

"I'm okay now!" grinned Lank, in open admiration. "Boy, the bump I took was worth it to see you stand Siddall on their heads!"

"I felt that bump myself," said Carl, pointedly, as Taber rooters gathered hilariously about to cheer their hockey idol whose star was once more high in the heavens. "I felt it," continued Carl a bit huskily, "thanks to you--right where I needed it most!"

THE ICE CYCLONE

"You can't play hockey and you never could!"

"Is that so?"

"Yes, that's so. You're just a fancy skater but your figure eights don't do you any good in a game."

Rand Downey, right wing on the Kirkwood High six, was boiling mad. This fellow, Frederick, the _Great_, Barker, had finally gotten so on his nerves as to cause him to explode. The idea of Coach Howard putting this impossible person on the team at left wing, replacing the veteran Don Keith who was out with a sprained ankle! What did Coach want to do--throw the whole team off its stride and right before the big game with Melville?

"It's true I haven't played much hockey," the slenderly built Frederick was replying. "You must remember, old boy, I didn't come out for the team--I was ... er ... pressed into service when the ... er ... expediency arose."

Frederick was like that. Big words, stilted sentences, haughty, superior manner. He didn't have a close friend in the school; kept pretty much to himself; played a lone hand when it came to sports. Track and ice skating had seemed to be his two favorite athletic diversions. In his peculiarly aloof way he had stepped out and won the two-twenty and four-forty, setting county records for both events. On the ice, Frederick had exhibited a brand of fancy skating which had astounded the natives.

"I should be able to skate," he had said, after winning the cup with ease. "My folks spent a couple years in Canada and, you know, babies are born with skates on their feet up there."

It had been Coach Howard's idea that the conversion of Frederick, the Great, Barker into a hockey player, would add amazing strength to the team. Strangely enough, the newcomer to Kirkwood had not been enthusiastic about the thoughts of playing.

"Ice skating is a game of grace and beauty of movement," had been his explanation. "I just don't see anything to this rough and tumble business."

But the old appeal "for the honor and glory of the school" had won Frederick over. He had readily agreed to Coach Howard's declaration that Kirkwood High possessed few really good skaters although he was not so sure that his addition to the team would have the bolstering effect predicted.

"I'll do the best I can," had been his promise.

"You'll be a whiz," the coach had encouraged. "A man as fast on his feet as you? Why, say--when you get this hockey game in your blood, you'll burn up the ice!"

Thus far, however, Frederick's participation had only succeeded in burning up his fellow players. Rand Downey, who had to play opposite him on the other wing, had reasons to be the most upset.

"I'd like to ask," flared Rand, "how's it come you've always picked soft sports to excel in?"

"What do you mean--'soft'?" Frederick's expression was one of hurt surprise.

"No physical conflict ... no bumping up against a real opponent ... like in football or baseball or--_hockey_?"

"Competition of that sort doesn't interest me," stated Frederick frankly, a flush creeping into his cheeks.

"You mean," taunted Rand, bent on driving home his thrust, "that you'd rather not mix it with anybody ... you're afraid of getting your hair mussed or a punch in the eye or your nose rubbed in the dirt."

Fellow players glared at their new team member, obviously in support of Rand's accusation.

"I admit," answered Frederick, unblinkingly, "such things do not appeal to me."

The fellow's absolute candor was amazing. Rand had deliberately set out to antagonize him and here he was, quietly agreeing to everything. Apparently Frederick, who came by his title "the Great" through this air of superiority, could not be fussed nor aroused. He made no pretense of that which he was not and indicated quite plainly that he felt entitled to his views on sport.

"I suppose you know, then," fired Rand, as a last broadside, "that you play hockey like a lady!"

"Worse than that!" broke in Steve Lucas, captain and center. "It would be different, Fred, if you weren't such a good skater ... but there's no excuse for the way you're side-stepping and skating in circles and dropping the puck at the blue line instead of trying to go through the defense. There's a certain color that applies to guys who pull what you've been pulling. We wouldn't care only we'd give our skates to beat Melville this year."

"And a fat chance we've got with Don Keith out," ranted Bill Stewart, stocky right defense. "He was the spark plug of our team. All you've done is fill us up with carbon!"

"I'm sorry," was the new team member's comment as he unfastened his skates and stepped off the rink. "But why jump me about this? I suggest you take your story to the coach. Any time he wants me to leave the team, I'll be delighted."

* * * * *

Fellow players groaned helplessly as Frederick, the Great, Barker walked off, head high.

"He's a conundrum, that bird!" declared Rand. "You'd think he didn't have any fight in him."

"He doesn't when it comes to sports like this," said Bill. "You hit the nail on the head when you razzed him about not wanting to mix it. I can understand now why he's steered clear of us fellows. He's against anything boisterous."

"He's grooming himself to be one of those gentleman sportsmen," twitted Steve, "whose pictures you see in the rotogravure section of newspapers, sitting on a horse, dressed in a polo cap; or else stretched out on a country club veranda, in golf togs. The pictures look swell but most of 'em don't mean any thing."

"He's a grand guy," summed up Rand. "I have to hand it to him for one thing. He's sure satisfied with himself. If I'd bawled any of you birds out the way I did him, I'd have started a free-for-all. He's got the spunk of a caterpillar."

"Coach certainly won't leave him in the line-up after today's game," reassured goal tender Chub Roland. "We were lucky not to lose. Fred spent about the whole time dodging collisions with the enemy. I think he only went down once. He's a fancy skater all right. He did some of the fanciest shifting I ever saw. Never used his body to block once ... tried to do it all with his stick. I yelled to him once to get in front of his man but he acted like he thought it wouldn't be the gentlemanly thing to do. Too bad he has to be such a lemon. I still think if we could get him steamed up about something--he might surprise us."

"Not that baby!" scoffed Rand. "He's got chronic cold feet. You'll never see him make a showing where he's got to swap bumps with someone else. He says himself that's not his idea of sport. Personally, I wouldn't get any kick out of running races or making fancy doodads on the ice. I'd just as soon take up crocheting."

The Kirkwood ice hockey squad laughed. It had been a hard, tense season with little opportunity to relax against an unusually high brand of competition. That Kirkwood had managed to remain a contender for the state interscholastic ice hockey championship, despite the absence of dependable spares, had been due to the heroic effort of the original six and the excellent guidance of Coach Howard. His latest move, however, in recruiting Frederick, the Great, as a hockey player, had appeared a psychological mistake, affecting as it had, the team's morale. Even sporting accounts of the game were none too complimentary.

"Fred Barker, playing his third game at left wing for Kirkwood," said the _Daily Eagle_, "still left much to be desired. Making allowance for the fact that ice hockey is new to the champion fancy skater, Barker, in the judgment of this sports writer, should be entering more into the spirit of the game and teaming up better with his mates. Time and again, on capturing the puck, he seemed at a loss as to what to do with it, taking some pretty turns about the ice which promised much but produced nothing. Coach Howard still seems of the opinion that Barker is going to fill Don Keith's skating shoes but, on the basis of his performance today, he will have to come along rapidly to even approach Don's stellar ability. Keith-to-Downey-to-Keith used to be the pass combination which brought scores for Kirkwood. Either that or the reverse: Downey-to-Keith-to-Downey with the resultant shot for goal. But Kirkwood has lost her scoring punch, temporarily at least--a punch she sorely needs in the coming battle against Melville, a sextet possessing such defensive power that not a goal has been scored against her the entire season!"

"I suppose you read the papers," was Coach Howard's greeting to Frederick, the Great, Barker on calling him aside at the next practice session.

"Yes, sir," Frederick replied, in a disinterested tone.

"That being the case, it saves me breath," said the coach. "The accounts of your playing were fairly accurate."

"I thought so myself," agreed Frederick.

"But you can do better than this. Why, man--you haven't begun to let yourself out yet! I've seen your fancy skating exhibitions and I know what you can do--your daring leaps and whirls. That airplane dive, as you call it, is one of the most hairbreadth things I've ever seen on skates."

Frederick's face spread into a slow smile.

"That isn't bad, is it?"

"Bad? It's simply great. But why can't you transmit a bit of that dash into hockey? You're doing some nice straight skating but that reckless abandon isn't there. I believe in you, Fred, or I wouldn't have urged you to play, against your own inclination."

The champion fancy skater dug the point of his skate into the ice.

"I know that," he said, with his first show of feeling, "but I can't help it, coach--I'm doing the best I can."

Coach Howard eyed the new left wing shrewdly.

"You're just kidding yourself, Fred," he said, pointedly. "There's something troubling you, boy. It's been troubling you for a long, long while and it's time you were getting it off your chest. Come clean--what is it?"

A hurt expression came into Frederick's face which he ordinarily kept well masked beneath the external attitude of indifference.

"You wouldn't understand if I told you," he returned, huskily.

"Perhaps I would."

"How could you when I don't really understand myself? All I know is that I've never had a desire for direct competitive sport. It dates back to the days when I was sickly and my parents discouraged me from taking part in the games and bucking up against the stronger fellows. I was disappointed, of course, and it sort of killed something inside me."

"You can get it back," reassured Coach Howard. "Give yourself a chance."

Frederick shook his head, sorrowfully. "Since I couldn't go in for the sports other fellows were playing, I developed the habit of staying off by myself. That hasn't helped me, either. I guess I've been too retrospective. There's such a word, isn't there?"

The coach smiled, sympathetically. "I think so--but I've been so busy with my present that I haven't had time to look backward. You shouldn't let the past have such a hold on you, Fred--snap out of this! You're missing half the fun in sport!"

Frederick nodded, ruefully. "I'd give a lot to be able to get enthused," he confessed. "When I see the kick the other fellows get out of playing, I know something must be wrong with me. All my athletic development has been individual and team play has left me cold. You want to know what hockey seems like to me? It's just a series of cracked heads and shins and so many knockdowns."

Coach Howard laughed. "It's because you haven't thrown yourself into the game ... haven't caught the spirit of it," he insisted.

"I guess I haven't," Frederick conceded. "As an individualist, I'm impressed with the fact that, in hockey, skating is secondary to the game and I get no particular thrill out of chasing a puck and banging at it with a stick. Neither can I see any necessity for letting myself be bumped to the ice if I can possibly help it. For that reason, some of the fellows are insinuating that I'm yellow. I hope you don't think that?"

"Frankly," said Coach Howard, "you're one fellow I can't catalogue. You've got me astraddle a fence."

"Well, I feel better for talking with you," said the champion fancy skater. "I've never opened up like this before. No one's seemed to care...."

"No one's cared because you haven't seemed to care what they were doing," explained the coach. "They won't warm up to you until you warm up to them--that's only natural."

Frederick swallowed, miserably. "Then I really don't know what I can do about it," he said, hoarsely. "I'm so used to doing things by myself that I don't feel at home with other fellows. I guess you'd better call it 'quits', Coach. I wouldn't want to lose the Melville game for you ... almost anyone would be better in there than me ... no matter how good a skater I am...."

"Nonsense!" decided Coach Howard. "This game means the championship--but if it meant a chance for you to win out over yourself, I'd rather play for that. You're going to discover one of these times, Fred, that you need hockey much more than hockey needs you and when you do--well, you'll be a different fellow!"

* * * * *

All of Kirkwood sat on the anxious seat the day of the Melville game. It was biting cold and clear and the rink was in the fastest condition of the season. There could be no complaint of the day or of the ice. The only cause for concern was the Kirkwood team which had played uncertain hockey since the loss of Don Keith. But Coach Howard had been keeping a surprise up his sleeve for the fans. Don's sprained ankle was well enough for him to play a part of the game, properly taped. When he reported for duty before the contest and told his overjoyed comrades that he had been working out secretly for the past three days, the old morale returned. The feeling of apprehension over Frederick, the Great, Barker vanished at once; in fact, Kirkwood's new left wing was left completely out of the demonstration, sitting quietly on a bench in the corner of the locker room.

"I'm glad to see you back, Keith," he welcomed, when Kirkwood's veteran, limping slightly, came back to his locker.

"Glad to be back," Keith rejoined, eyes gleaming. "We've got to take that chesty outfit today. Can you imagine their not even being scored on all year? Have to watch out for their crack centre, Scotty Lathrom. He's the backbone of their offense and defense ... one of the best poke-checkers in the game!"

"We'll lay for him all right," promised right wing Rand Downey. "Boy, it seems like old times again. We've got the winning combination now!"

Frederick, marveling at the revival of spirit, studied the fellow who was responsible for it. Don Keith possessed, in addition to a sturdy physique, a radiant, aggressive personality. He commanded attention and inspired others to follow his leadership. Noting this, Frederick envied Don Keith sincerely.

"If you can't feel a thing," he said to himself, consolingly, "you can't be a part of it."

Coach Howard, as the team left the locker room for the rink, patted Frederick on the back.

"I'll be using you to relieve Don," he informed. "So be ready to go in there and tear loose!"

Frederick smiled, ironically. He knew he'd be regarded as doing his bit today if he merely helped hold the fort until Don should get his "breathers" and go charging back into the fray. Perhaps it was just as well. He'd only consented to play hockey as a duty to the school and, this way, whatever the outcome of the game, no one could hold him directly responsible.

Don Keith received a tremendous ovation from home town supporters as he skated on the ice. Frederick joined the secondary forward wall and practiced pass work. The Melville team flashed by, a rugged looking outfit.

"Where's this Frederick, the Great, person?" a voice suddenly shrilled.

Frederick looked about, surprised, and found himself confronted by Melville's grinning star, Scotty Lathrom.

"So you're the champion fancy skater, eh?" Scotty accosted, in a loud voice which attracted the attention of the crowd. "Well, I've been waiting to meet you, brother, because I've worked out a few gyrations I'd like to see you duplicate!"

Frederick stared at his unexpected challenger, coldly. What was this Scotty Lathrom trying to do--get his goat--or make him look foolish before the fans?

"If you thought you were so good," he replied, quietly, "why didn't you enter the fancy skating competition?"

"I'm going to next year," announced Scotty. "And I'm going to pull some stuff they never saw before. Look at this one!"

Melville's crack hockey player spun about on the sides of his skates and went into a roll.

"That's easy," said Frederick, and followed suit, reproducing the roll with an even more polished finish.

"But that's not all of it!" Scotty called, and rolled to the side, doing a surprise handspring, picking up the roll again, then going into another handspring, alternating from side to side and with a cadence that was pretty to watch. "There you are!" he cried, as the crowd applauded.

Frederick felt the competitive urge well up within him. He forgot for the moment that this meeting between Kirkwood and Melville was essentially for the playing of hockey. Here was an individual who dared meeting him on his own ground--who defied the ice skating champion! The stunt that Scotty had pulled was a new variation, one in which Frederick was not practiced, but the crowd had begun yelling for him to repeat the trick as Scotty stood by, banteringly.

"I guess that stumps you, doesn't it?" taunted Melville's crack centre.

Rand Downey, with other members of Kirkwood's team, watched the developments with great interest and no little amusement.

"Frederick, the Great's in a hotbox now," chuckled Rand. "If he refuses to try to duplicate Scotty's stunt, he admits he's licked; and if he tries it and flops, he's just as bad off! Serves the old boy right. Scotty's hitting him in the only place where he can be hurt!"

Deadly serious and grimly determined, Frederick skated off across the ice, whirled and came back in a series of rolls. Twice it seemed as though he was about to go into a handspring but checked himself and continued on. It was obvious that the maneuver was a new one to him and that he was feeling his way before actually attempting the stunt. Scotty winked at fellow team mates.

"Stumped on the very first one," he said, in a loud voice, "and I've got plenty of others!"

But Frederick, with confidence in his own ability, was not admitting that he could not duplicate Scotty's performance. He suddenly left his feet on a lunge to the side, struck the ice on his hands and attempted the handspring. He was off balance, however, and succeeded only in throwing himself, joltingly.

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Scotty. "She's not as simple as she looks, is she?"

Frederick, red of face, got to his feet, painfully. He immediately tried again with similar embarrassing results.

"Here's an easier one," cried Scotty, as the crowd murmured its hilarity at the impromptu skating match.