“Saturday morning’s a weird time for a match!” said Blossom, rereading the letter to her chums. “But their captain says it’s the only time they can get their field. It’s used by another club in the afternoons, so she’s fixed eleven o’clock.”
“It suits me rather decently,” said Janie Potter. “I’m going out to tea in the afternoon, so I couldn’t have come if the match had been at three. Don’t stare at me like that! No I’m not a slacker! I must accept invitations to tea sometimes, even if I am in the team. What a dragon you are, Blossom!”
“Good thing someone keeps the team up, or you’d be gadding off tea-drinking instead of playing!” returned Blossom grimly. “Grovebury expects every girl to do her duty on Saturday. It will be bad luck for the season if we lose our first match.”
The Clinton Old Girls’ Association had its field at Denscourt, a town ten miles away from Grovebury. It was arranged by the team, and for any girls from the college who cared to come as spectators, to meet at the railway station at 10:15, and travel together under the escort of Miss Giles.
Ingred, who was a keen player, and very proud of having been placed in the reserve, was to spend Friday night at the hostel, instead of returning as usual to Wynch-on-the-Wold.
Nora, Verity, and Fil were also to be numbered among the spectators.
On the eventful morning, as the girls were just finishing breakfast, a telegram arrived for Rachel Grant. She tore open the yellow envelope, and her face fell as she read the brief message. Her mother was seriously ill, and she must return home immediately. Mrs. Best went upstairs at once to arrange for her hurried journey, and to help her to pack.
Downstairs at the breakfast-table the girls discussed the bad news. They were very sorry for Rachel, and also for themselves, for she was their right inner.
“It’s like our luck!” fretted Janie Potter.
“Too disgusting for words!” groused Doreen Hayward.
“Poor old Rachel!” groaned Fil.
“What’s going to be done?” asked everybody, as they folded their serviettes and left the table.
That question was answered by Miss Giles, who beckoned to Ingred in the hall, and said briefly:
“Ingred, will you fetch your hockey-stick and pads?”
Ingred did not need telling twice. To take Rachel’s place was indeed an honor. Such a chance did not come often. With huge satisfaction she donned her neat navy-blue skirt, edged with its orange band, and her blouse with its orange collar and cuffs.
“You lucker!” sighed Nora enviously. “I’d just jolly well give everything I have to be in the match today. It’s not much sport to stand by and cheer. Oh, don’t think I’m trying to get out of coming! I’m going to look on and see that you do your duty. If you’re not playing up, I’ll hiss!”
“I’ll do my best,” laughed Ingred, “and if I drop down for sheer lack of breath, I shall expect you and Verity to carry me home. There!”
“Right you are! It’s a bargain, though you’d be a jolly heavy burden, I can tell you.”
The team, Miss Giles, and about twenty girls as spectators, were punctual to their appointment, and assembled at the station just in time for the train. By a little maneuvering, combined with good fortune, they secured three compartments to themselves, for a solitary old gentleman, whom they found in possession of a corner seat, bolted in alarm at such an invasion of schoolgirls, and sought sanctuary in a smoking carriage. Some generous spirits had brought chocolates and butterscotch, which they shared round, and Nora, the irrepressible, produced from her pocket a mouth-organ, with which she proceeded to entertain the company, until frantic raps from the next compartment made her aware that Miss Giles heard and disapproved of her amateur recital. Naturally the talk was largely about hockey and the chances of the match. It was known that the Old Clintonians were a strong team, for most of them had been the crack players of their school. To beat them would indeed be a feather in the cap of the college.
“Too good to come off!” groaned Blossom gloomily.
“Nonsense, you can’t tell till you’ve tried! Make up your mind you’re going to win!” said Nora indignantly. “I shan’t speak to you again if you lose this match!”
“I’m only one out of eleven, please!”
“Well, I don’t care! One who makes up her mind to fail can spoil everything, and vice-versa, so just buck up and win!”
The hockey ground was not very far from the station at Denscourt, and when the Grovebury contingent arrived they found the Old Clintonians ready and waiting for them. The eleven ran into the pavilion and took off the long coats that had covered their gym costumes; then trooped out on to the field, as neat and businesslike looking a team as could be imagined. Blossom, with her chums, Janie and Doreen, took good stock of their opponents.
“They’re a strong set, and will take some beating,” said Janie.
“Rather!” agreed Blossom. “You may be sure we’re not going to goal just when we please.”
“They look topping sports!” commented Doreen.
Everything was now in perfect order; the teams were placed, and the umpire blew her whistle for the match to begin. As the account of such a contest is always much more interesting when narrated by an actual spectator, and as Nora wrote a long and accurate description of it afterwards to a cousin at school in London, I will insert her letter, and allow it to speak for itself.
(This letter is an account of a real match, written by a real schoolgirl.)
“Grovebury College.
“My Dear Margaret,
“I simply must tell you about the hockey match we played last Saturday!
“The team played the Clinton High School Old Girls’ Association at Denscourt.
