relief when, two days before the Winston game, Carl Hemmer showed up at the locker room, ready to don his togs.

“I feel fine,” he announced, quietly.

“That’s great!” greeted Lank, cordially. “Glad to have you back!”

Coach Corcoran conferred with Doctor Lawrence. The Winston game was not expected to tax Taber seriously.

“Better not scrimmage him yet,” was Doctor’s advice. “I doubt if the team needs another scrimmage session. Just a running through their formations.”

“I think you’re right,” said the Coach.

In practice the presence of Carl Hemmer brought back the old snap in the team. The puck skimmed from player to player as they swept up and down the ice in formation.

“I want to see these plays click in the Winston game,” called Coach Corcoran. “It’ll be our last chance to brush up on ’em before we hit Siddall!”

“They’ll look like a million!” promised Lank.

Thirty cents is as far from a million as the earth is from the moon. That Lank’s enthusiastic prophecy was not fulfilled was due not so much to Winston as to the fellow who had been Taber High’s spark plug. Since most of the plays were built around him, Carl Hemmer absolutely had to be functioning himself if the formations were to be successfully completed. But the game was not five minutes old before players and spectators alike knew that something was radically wrong with the usually dependable and scintillating right wing. Carl started his dashes with the usual fervor but they faded rapidly as he passed center ice and, instead of going through at all costs, he veered to right or left, attempting to evade the Winston defense and slipping into the end zone along the sideboards. His efforts, as a result, were reduced almost to naught with the puck being lost repeatedly and Winston’s starting an offensive of its own.

“This sometimes happens to a fellow who gets a bad bump on the head,” remarked Doctor Lawrence privately to an anxious Coach Corcoran. “That’s why I wanted Carl to take things so easy. It’s just as though he’d been beaned by a baseball. He has a nervous reaction to thoughts of another possible crash. But it’ll wear off!”

“That may be,” conceded the Coach. “But when? That’s the question!”

“He should get better before this game is over,” said the Doctor.

But Carl Hemmer’s improvement was not noticeable. And the falling off in his playing form was making what should have been an easy game look hard. As late as the third quarter, Taber High was leading by only one goal to none, and this goal scored by Lank who’d smacked in the rebound of a long shot which Carl had fired from the blue line.

“What’s the matter, Carl, old warhorse?” Lank finally asked, as team members looked on, wonderingly.

“Nothing!” was Carl’s tight-lipped answer.

And no one had the heart to question him further.

The game ended without a change in the score and sports writers now had something to write about. “Injury Affects Hemmer’s Playing,” one heading said. “Hemmer Shadow of Former Self,” declared another. “Crippling of Hemmer Menaces Chances Against Siddall,” was a third feature title. But it remained for one sport scribe to offer the explanation that “Hemmer played under wraps, apparently by instructions of Coach Corcoran who was running no risks against his not being in shape to meet Siddall next Saturday. There’s little doubt but that Carl will be in his customary great form at that time ... and then we’ll be treated to a whirlwind battle between himself and Whiz Deagen—two of the smartest performers in high school hockey.”

Rated as two evenly matched sextets, Taber and