12 Sports Aces, January 1943 — page 28: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

26 ee Sweeney asked the questions and Har- Yigan gave the answers. The police had been very interested in Bo Madden’s ac- tivities for some time. They hadn’t wast- ed a minute, once Rock had been marked for murder. In jig-time, they had pulled in the thug who had been at the wheel of the car that had hit Rock. The doctor stretched Sweeney out on the rubbing board. He began strapping his ribs. Buzzy looking on, said: “Bo Madden put plenty of ‘smart’ dough on the line that the Raiders would- n’t make the play-offs. This is the game that’s supposed to start us on the skids. Angel is doing the masterminding and it’s a cinch we won’t cop this one, Even with the lid blowing off this thing, the Raiders still won’t make the grade. The damage has already been done.’” There was a silence. The Doc finished taping Sweeney’s ribs. Sweeney lay there, the thought of the jinx was a germ irritating his insides. He hadn’t really licked the thing. Instead, he had been a victim. He thought of the sag that a de- feat would put in the Raider morale. It would be even worse when the whole messy business hit clean air. Then the doe was saying: “I’m going to get you out of here. I'll have an ambulance take you to the hos- pital.” : The doc disappeared to put in the call for the ambulance. He returned a couple of minutes later and Sweeney had vacat- ed the rubbing board. The doc bewildered- ly looked at Buzzy and Harrigan. Both of them had sly grins on their faces, “He’s gone,” Buzzy said. “Listen to that noise out there. Ain’t it wonderful? Sweeney’s back out there playing.” “Why, the man will be lucky to last five minutes,” the doc said. “That’s all that’s necessary, doc,” Buz- zy said. “There’s only three minutes left to play.” The 3-1 headway the Hawks had gained “Was in jeopardy. The pressure was on and it was Sweeney who put it on the Hawks. Less than a minute on the ice and the guy was a flying nightmare on skates to the Hawks, Already he had 12 SPORTS ACES flipped in one goal to narrow the margin that stood between the teams to a single counter. The Hawks went into a strictly defensive formation, prowling and pro- tecting the danger zone. The mob’s noise- shook the rafters. Another Raider rush evolved at mid- ice, swept down the ice. It uncoiled and Sweeney went over the blue line. The backliners came up to pinch him in his tracks. They threw a ring of steel around him. Happy Holliday busted into one of them and that gave Sweeney his opening, He shifted his weight, swerved and the ice splinters flew from his skates. It was a tricky, split-second maneuver that drew a body cheek from the backliner. It didn’t connect. A rival winger swooped in at an angle, apparently willing to take a pen- alty to stop Sweeney. The urge to blast past this Hawk, to meet dynamite with dynamite, was in Sweeney’s soul. But there was that throb- bing, terrible ache in his sides and his brain urged caution, Nails Hearne bore down the opposite lane. Sweeney passed the ammunition. Nails zoomed in on the Hawk net-tender. He fired the puck. The red light went on. The score was dead- locked, three-all. Sweeney had come back. The man the jinx had put the whammy on earlier in the game was now fighting it and licking it. The teams faced off. Sweeney skated close to Angel Toland. A shocked, almost incredible stare had replaced the smirk on his lips. And Sweeney knew that he had licked Angel and his jinx, HE Hawks stiffened, fought back fiercely. They were a game, hard- driving outfit. They fought fury with a renewed fury of their own. The seconds were running out. It looked like an over- time period was in the books. Angel Toland was the crimp in the Raider attack. The guy was in a fog, jammed and throwing sand in the gears. Sweeney could sense that something was amiss. The whole Raider bench was clamoring, hollering for Angel to get out of the game. Buzzy Barnes yelled something over the dasher COMICLOOOL< (E@