THE LITTLE CORPORALS.

BY JULIANA CONOVER.

There was a suspicious sniffle, then a series of gulps, and then the letters grew blurred and indistinct, and even hard winking would not keep the tears back; to Charlie's mortification they actually splashed down on the page before him.

Herr Dr. Hartmann looked up, peering through his glasses at the boy.

"What dost thou read?" he asked, kindly. "It is not, I hope, bad news from the home?"

"No," muttered Charlie, blowing his nose hard; "it's—a hockey story."

"Ach, du liebe Zeit!" ejaculated the puzzled master. "And what is that—an American wild animal, perhaps?"

Charlie shook his head and smiled, such a pathetic, homesick smile. "No, it's a game," he answered. "You play it on the ice with hockeys—sticks with a crook at the end—and a block of wood or rubber."

"So? and our German boys they do not know it? Then thou must teach them"—cheerfully—"yes? for the skating is good now, they tell me. Komischer Junge!" he exclaimed a little later to his wife. "He reads for pleasure, and then he cries. It is, of course, the homesickness, and I fancy he misses the out-of-door life and the sports which they have always in America."

Charlie Stanton was fourteen—quite old enough, he maintained, to be his own master, even in a foreign country; but when his mother and father had actually said good-by, leaving him in a German family in Berlin while they went to Egypt for the winter, he began to regret his boasted independence; and while not acknowledging himself homesick, even a hockey story recalled too many happy memories to be read quite stoically. Mr. and Mrs. Stanton had felt perfectly safe in leaving their son with Dr. Hartmann, for he was a man who made it as much his concern to know that his pupils were happy, as that they imbibed a sufficient quantity of German and the classics.

At two o'clock the next afternoon Charlie started out for the West End Eisbahn. It was a beautiful day, cold and crisp and clear, and the boy's eyes glistened as he adjusted the lever of his skates. Then he stood up and looked about. Germans to right of him, Germans to left of him, Germans all around him, rising and falling. He watched them for a moment, and then struck out rather dismally, for even skating lost half its charm when one was quite alone. What was his astonishment, then, when a small block of wood shot past him, propelled by a real hockey in the hands of a boy about his own size.

"Stop him! head him off! he'll make a goal!" shouted Charlie, in great excitement, forgetting his surroundings utterly; and seizing a cane that was lying on a bench, he started off in mad pursuit, colliding recklessly with girls and officers, and sending several stiff little cadets sprawling on their backs. The next minute, by a dexterous stroke, he knocked up the hockey, dislodged the ball, and before his astounded opponent could recover himself, had carried it in triumph to the end of the pond.

"Goal!" he cried, waving his stick as the other boy came up.

"You went out of bounds," he retorted; "but, George! you do know how to play hockey! Are you an American?"

"Yes. Are you?"

"Rather"—emphatically. "We're only spending the winter here, because Edith, my sister, is taking violin lessons. Here she comes"—as a remarkably pretty girl, accompanied by a "colossal schneider" hussar, glittering in blue and silver, skated towards them.

"Are you on the war-path, Dick?" Edith Hartley asked, laughingly, "Herr Von Lutzow says that the dead and wounded are lying all over the pond, and that the German army will have to hold you to account."

"All right. We'll challenge the German army to a game of hockey—won't we!" turning to Charlie.

"Easily," he replied.

"Hear that, Rahden?" said Von Lutzow, to a Second Lieutenant in the Infantry Guards who had joined Miss Hartley.

The young officer laughed. "Is it what you call the American cheek—yes? I have heard of it. Guädiges Fräulein, may I have the honor?"

"Not if you insult my country. Oh, Herr Von Lutzow, do get up a hockey game. It would be such fun to see you try and play."

"You think we could not? Too stiff—what? Rahden, we will have to show them that the German army cannot be trifled with even in sport. Then, Young America, get up your company, team, what you call it, and we will meet you on the battle-ground of the Grunewald one week from to-day. Ah! It will be the birthday of your great man, is it not? Your Mr. Washington."

Dick and Charlie were old friends by the time they left the Eisbahn, and they walked home together, discussing most earnestly the vital question of "material" for their hockey team.

"A week is an awfully short time," Dick said, as they parted; "but if the ice lasts we will show them what American boys can do."

The next day, however, brought a most discouraging note to Charlie.

"I can't find a fellow who knows a hockey from a hole in the ground," Dick wrote. "It's awfully hard luck. I could get Englishmen to burn; but that wouldn't do, because we challenged the officers to an international game, and we've got to stick to it, and play them somehow."

Charlie's spirits sank to zero. He didn't know a single boy in the whole city, and, what was even worse, he could not go out that afternoon to help in the search. But surely in all Berlin there must be at least seven boys—for they needn't play eleven—who knew something of shinny, or even football—if they could only skate. So he wrote back to Dick in the words of the famous Lawrence, and then waited in a fever of impatience for Dick's next bulletin.

"It's all right," Dick wrote. "I hustled like everything yesterday, and managed to find some fellows who knew how to handle their hockeys pretty well, but have never played on a regular team. They'll do, though. I hope the officers won't crawl now."

So did Charlie, devoutly, for his spirits had risen so high with the first sentence that he felt ready for any thing—artillery, cavalry, infantry—let them all come on!

That afternoon the raw recruits were drilled with such energy by the "little corporals," as the officers had dubbed the boys, that it began to look dark for the German army.

Dick and Charlie really played a remarkably fine game for their age, and were indefatigable in their efforts to teach the team how to dodge, and stop short, and back up, and play together, etc.; and it was quite dark when a dozen dead-tired but hopeful and enthusiastic boys started for home, their skates over their arms.

Finally Washington's birthday dawned bright and clear.

"And it is to-day the great game—yes?" asked Dr. Hartmann, as he watched Charlie's serious face at the morning coffee. "And the Kaiser, he will be there?"

Charlie laughed such a clear ringing laugh it did the Herr Doctor's heart good to hear it. There did not seem to be an atom of homesickness left in the hoy, and all because of a game! Truly the sporting spirit was a strange and unaccountable thing.

No, the Kaiser was not at the Grunewald, but quite a number of brilliant uniforms lined the little sheet of ice on that memorable afternoon. The boys were in old and variegated sweaters—a great contrast to the smart military team that walked gingerly across the slippery ice while the officers on the bank chaffed them in ringing tones.

"Stillgestanden! Kopf in die Höhe!" (halt! head up!) cried one. "Knochen zusammen!" (legs together) called another; while a gaudy yellow hussar exhorted one to "shake himself into his coat."

Their amusement only increased when the Prussian force stood up in line, their faces crimson from the effort of putting on their skates without the help of a Bursche.

Frank Moore, a friend of the Hartleys, had promised to act as umpire, and had made all the necessary arrangements. After a little preliminary skirmishing, Dick and a big hussar with a fierce red mustache shook hands and declared themselves ready. Then the two teams lined up. The umpire placed the block in the centre of the field, and the whistle blew. Like a flash the forwards bore down upon the little solid vulcanized rubber block, the officers reaching it first.

"Spread out!" cried Dick. "Guard your field!"

The big hussar tried to dodge, but he was between too many fires; so, swinging his hockey, he gave the ball a tremendous whack, which sent it spinning down towards the goal. "After it! after it!" he yelled to his lagging team. "Great Scott! we'll—machen ein goal!" recollecting himself suddenly. But there was no goal, for the ball went out of bounds thirty yards from the posts.

It was brought out at right angles, and dropped by the umpire between the hockeys of the two captains. There was a few seconds of feverish scrimmage, in which all the forwards joined, and then a long hockey darted like the tongue of a snake into the crowd from the outside, skilfully hooking the block, and the owner whirled round in the very faces of his own men, and then backwards and sideways he zigzagged, until he found an open space, for which he made a dash, and before the astounded hussars could recover themselves he had carried it, skating like the wind, past the backs and the goal-keeper, in for a goal.

A storm of "Bravos!" greeted this successful trick, and Edith led with a rousing American cheer, for it was Charlie who had scored one for his country.

"That's jolly good hockey!" said a fat, breathless little Lieutenant; and Dick turned and looked at him in surprise.

Then the block was put in play again, and back and forth it flew, until the big hussar once more got the ball and a clear space, and by a brilliant exhibition of fast skating and clever tricking, he too carried it safely in for a goal.

"Deutschland, Deutschland über alles!" chanted the officers on the bank.

The German army was playing well, suspiciously well; their long passes would have brought joy to a lacrosse-player's heart, and their clean hits would have made a polo enthusiast shout with delight.

Dick and Charlie conferred together in low tones. Should they protest against the pure English of the gay hussars? Something was clearly wrong, though the uniforms seemed right. But no, they would not stop to challenge them.

Up and down the ice the rubber block spun, alternately threatening the well-guarded goal-posts. It was such pretty hockey that the officers on the bank, in the excitement of the game, forgot to chaff their representatives, and only when Charlie, "by playing for his man," had bowled a stiff little hussar clean over, did they give way to unrestrained mirth.

"You've broken my leg, you young idiot," roared out this forgetful officer, as he struggled to his feet; and then he bit his lip, and muttered "By Jove!" for he saw that he had given himself away.

"Was ist dann los?" (What's the matter) was called out from the bank as the game hung fire for a minute.

"We are discovered," came back the answer, and there was a burst of laughter from the crowd, for the fraud practised upon the boys had been an open secret to them all.

"Take your mustache off, Mackintosh, it dazzles my eyes," cried some one. And the boys looked up at the big hussar, who was grinning sheepishly under his disguise.

"What Dummkophs we were!" they exclaimed. "Why, their uniforms don't fit for a cent!"

At this the bogus officers shouted.

"Mine's horribly tight," said one. "I can't breathe."

"I can't bend in mine," groaned Thomas, the English chaplain's son; "it's got a ramrod up the back."

"My stiffest chokers are cotton wool compared to these impossible boards," said little Smith, wriggling his neck round inside the beautiful gold collar.

"Is there one real officer on the team?" demanded the little corporals, who were sternly superintending the unmasking of the impostors.

"No," answered Mackintosh, cheerfully. "We are all echt English subjects—for I'm a Canadian."

The two Lieutenants who had "crawled" so ignominiously came forward with Miss Hartley to make their peace.

"Your sister she have did it," said Von Rahden, for Germans too are descended from Adam.

"Yes," acknowledged Edith, penitently, but with a twinkle in her eye, "it was my fault. Herr Von Lutzow said, 'What is a German officer, a hussar, without his sword or spurs? He is not, as you say, "inside it."'"

"I have said, we had not the time," protested this maligned hussar.

"Or the skill," she answered, laughing. "At any rate, they regularly backed out, Dick, so Mr. Moore and I concocted this scheme in order to cover their disgraceful retreat, and redeem at least their uniforms."

"Beastly things," growled Mackintosh; "handicapped us like everything."

"Take them off, then," she retorted. "You'll play it out boys? America against England instead of Germany?"

The little corporals looked at the strapping young Englishmen, all good football-players, and some old hockey-players as well; but they did not have the Napoleonic spirit for nothing.

"Yes, we'll play them," they said, and the whole team echoed it.

Then the bogus hussars peeled off their tight gold-laced jackets, and breathed once more freely. It would be an international struggle, and they must put forth all their strength and skill. The teams lined up.

"We'll pass the block to each other as we did before," whispered Dick, "and then scoot for the open ice. And tell the fellows, Charlie, not to try and stop Mackintosh, but to hook his hockey the way you did; and we'll work that circling trick again, too."

Mackintosh was clearly a star player. He kept his body bent, his arm out straight, and his hockey ever ready for the block to nestle in. And when Thomas backed him, and the rest cleared the way, he was a formidable man to tackle. But "Young America," led by the gallant little corporals, never lost heart or head. They shinnied on all sides, they kept their eyes right on the block, they hit it hard, they "babied" it, they shoved it between legs and hockeys to an open field, and then darted like lightning for it themselves, and they worked tricks which made the more knowing spectators shout with enthusiasm.

The score kept running up, and still the apparently unevenly matched teams kept even. Five goals each, and only five minutes more to play.

"Look out for the long pass and skirting round the edges," said Mackintosh, and Thomas nodded.

The umpire blew his whistle, and once more the forwards charged down upon the block, which became the centre of a fierce scrimmage. Dick hovered on the outskirts, and when the puck flew from between the legs of Smith he caught it on his hockey and started off; to the right of one he dodged, to the left of another, and, when fairly cornered, he managed, by a quick turn and lightning stroke, to hit the ball, and send it whizzing down the pond.

Now there was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, and Mackintosh, the big Canadian, got there first. Then squirming and worming, he worked his way up the field. Edith held her breath.

"Hook his hockey! hook his hockey!" cried Charlie, who was guarding the goal, cool even at this critical moment; and he started slowly towards him, hoping to force him out of bounds. But Mackintosh, with Dick hard behind, could not afford to lose speed by dodging, and—crash! the two came together, and together went down, with a sound like falling timbers—giant oaks. The ice shivered, and then split from end to end, a long deep crack; but the game went on, for Dick, with the national honor at stake, could not stop to see what besides the eight-inch ice was cracked, and by a series of never-to-be-surpassed tactics he carried the ball straight up the pond for a winning goal; and then, while the air thrilled to the cloudburst of "Bravos!"—for the officers had basely gone over to the enemy, and were backing America with all the lung-power they could spare from their dignity—he skated back to find Charlie with a bleeding head and broken collar-bone, but mad with delight because his fall had saved the game. The crowd swarmed upon the ice, and the boys were the heroes of the hour. But they bore their honors very modestly, even though Edith declared it to be a double victory.

"They had beaten the Germans by default," she said, "and England by nerve. Any one, to look at the two teams"—here she glanced up at Mackintosh and down at Charlie—"would see that the boys were clearly outclassed; but the great American spirit—"

"And a week of hard practice," put in Mackintosh. "Only got our hockeys yesterday."

"I accept the amendment. The great American spirit, and a week of practice have gained the day."

"Three cheers for the little corporals!" said Von Lutzow. "They have nobly won their spurs. And we, Husaren of the Royal Guards, who cannot fight with crooked sticks, will be proud to cross swords with them at any time."

"And this," ejaculated Herr Dr. Hartmann, clasping his hands in horror as Charlie, with head and shoulders bound and bandaged, but happy as a king, was deposited at the door—"and this is called sport!"