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"Oh, Fusie," cried Hughie, "let's get Davie and get into the woods. I'm not going in to-day. I hate the beastly place, and the whole gang of them." Fusie, the little, harum-scarum French waif was ready for anything in the way of adventure. To him anything was better than the even monotony of the school routine. True, it might mean a whipping both from the teacher and from Mrs.
Soon Fusie was at the top of the birch, which began to sway dangerously. "Try to fly into that balsam," cried Hughie. "No, sir!" "Yes, go on." "Can't do it." "Oh, pshaw! you can." "No, nor you either. That's a mighty big jump." "Come on down, then, and let me try," said Hughie, in scorn. His laziness was gone in the presence of a possible achievement.
"But for all that, she'll have a long day," he said to himself, for only his loyalty to the school and to Hughie had brought him to the game that day. When play was called, Hughie, with Fusie immediately behind him, stood facing Dan in the center with one of the little Red Shirts at his back. It was Dan's drop.
At the school door stood Miss Morrison, the teacher, smiling down upon Foxy, who was looking up at her with an expression of such sweet innocence that Hughie groaned out between his clenched teeth, "Oh, you red-headed devil, you! Some day I'll make you smile out of the other side of your big, fat mouth." "Who are you swearing at?" It was Fusie.
For half an hour the boys lay on the moss discussing the accident fully in all its varying aspects and possibilities, till the sound of wheels came up the road. "Who's that, Fusie?" asked Hughie, lazily. "Dunno me," said Fusie, peering through the trees. "Do you, Scotty?" "No, not I." Hughie crawled over to the edge of the brush. "Why, you idiots! it's Thomas Finch.
"What's the matter with you, Scottie?" asked Hughie, with a bewildered look about him. "And who's been throwing water all over me?" he added, wrathfully, as full consciousness returned. "Man! I'm glad to see ye mad. Gang on wi' ye," shouted Davie, joyously. "Ye were deid the noo. Ay, clean deid. Was he no, Fusie?" Fusie nodded. "I guess not," said Hughie.
We are told that the Lord taketh no pleasure in the legs of man, and this is true in the game of shinny. Not legs alone, but heart and head win, with anything like equal chances. "Game called, 2:30; Captain Hughie has the drop; seizes the ball, passes it to Fusie, who rushes, passes back to Hughie, who has arrived in the vicinity of the enemy's goal, and shoots, swift and straight, a goal.
It was difficult for the minister to realize that young Canada was a new type, and he would have been more than surprised had any one told him that already Hughie, although only twelve, was an expert with a gun, having for many a Saturday during the long, sunny fall roamed the woods, at first in company with Don, and afterwards with Don's gun alone, or followed by Fusie or Davie Scotch.
Enthusiastic yells from Foxy's following. And Foxy, having done much better than he expected, is encouraged to pursue his advantage. "Meantime the blood is being mopped off Hughie's face with a snowball, his tears flowing equally with his blood. "'Wait till to-morrow, urges Fusie, his little French fidus Achates. "'To-morrow! yells Hughie, suddenly. 'No, but now!
Suppose you let the ball go for a game or two, and stick to Dan. Trail him, never let him shake you. The rest of us will take care of the game." "All right," said Hughie, "I'll stick to him," and off he set for the center. As the loser, Hughie again held the drop. He faced Dan with determination to get that ball out to Fusie, and somehow he felt in his bones that he should succeed in doing this.
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