who backed Frank up in the play. Whatever they may have privately thought about these wonderful Clifford players, they no longer feared them. That winning of the first goal had told each Columbia fellow that Clifford was vulnerable, and they believed that Frank had found the weak spot in their armor.
Coots had gone stale! He was no longer the wonder of the past. When Frank took the puck from him for the third time the crowd on the banks, at least that part of it coming from up-river, fairly groaned.
"What's the matter with Coots?" was asked everywhere.
"He's off his play, and must be sick!" others said.
"Hastings had better change around and face himself, then, before it's too late. Coots has lost his grip, sure!"
"Rats!" jeered Buster Billings, derisively; "don't you believe it a minute. Coots is as good as ever lie was. The trouble is he's now up against his hoodoo. It ain't 'what's the matter with Coots?' but 'how about Allen!' See?"
Again was the goal of Clifford in peril. The •enemy had shoved down until it was only necessary to shoot the puck past the guard of McQuirk again to score.
