Charles turned; the play had begun again. There was one furious scrimmage; then the timekeeper blew his whistle: the game was over.
Instantly the St. John’s Sixth Formers were out on the ice, slipping, sliding, crowding round their men—especially about Charles; they were jubilant and hilarious. The St. Timothy’s players left them in possession of the rink and silently sat down outside to take off their skating-boots; and the St. Timothy’s spectators began silently to move away. But Edward lingered; he came up to his brother and put his arm over his shoulder and pressed his hand.
“You old chump!” he said. “What’s the use of our smashing you up—if you go ahead and lick us just the same?”
“Don’t make me laugh,” said Charles. “It hurts.” He pointed to a cut on his lip. Help me off with these skating-boots, will you?”
He stretched himself out on the ground; Edward busied himself with the right foot and a St. John’s boy with the left, and Charles,
