Diamond was heartily congratulated, and his dark face flushed with
pleasure over his success.
"But I didn't do it alone," he declared. "Merriwell deserves as much or
more credit, for he sent it out of the bunch, and gave me my chance at
it."
"You fellows must have played together a great deal," said Harden. "You
work together perfectly."
Frank laughed.
"We never played together in a game before," he said. "I didn't know
Diamond played polo till a short time ago."
"It's remarkable!" smiled St. Ives, who was delighted over the work of
his team. "And old Coffin Head is right in the game."
"You bet!" cried Merry. "He is an old dandy! I wouldn't swap him for
Liner now!"
"But he has not done such work this season. He is in his old-time trim,
and I believe two-thirds of it comes from his rider."
Diamond touched Frank's arm, and drew him aside.
"Say, Frank," he whispered, "do you know you came near getting a crack
over the head?"
"Sure," nodded our hero.
"Well, take my advice and look out for that Fenton. I saw him when he
struck at you, and I know he would have struck just as quick if his
mallet had been made of iron."
"I'll watch out for him, Jack."
"Do it, and I'll keep my eyes open myself."
Lock had strained his side twisting in the saddle for a stroke, and a
fellow by the name of Hawley was substituted. Kimball and Stone both
rushed to the stable to change ponies, and Hawley called for another
pony in the place of the one Lock had ridden. Of the Meadowfairs, Fenton
was the only one who retained his mount.
Harden was the only Springbrook man who made a change. His pony had not
acted satisfactorily, although it was considered a fairly good animal.
But it is an old saying that "the more a man knows about polo ponies the
less he knows about them," and the paradox is an indisputable truth.
Nearly all polo ponies are Western bred, and have broncho blood in them.
A broncho is unreliable at best. For a thousand times he may serve you
perfectly, and then, when you least expect such a thing, for no apparent
reason, he may prove utterly unreliable.
Ponies for expert players must have lots of speed and good blood in
them, but it is necessary that they should be tough and hard to injure.
As for the game of polo, there is no other sport in which the nervous
force, cool decision and quick judgment of man are coupled to such an
extent with the natural instincts of the horse.
Polo, properly played by man, with ponies thoroughly trained and keyed
up to the highest tension, is a game which possesses just danger enough
to make it attractive to men of nerve. It requires a cool head, quick
eye, infinite perseverance and marvelous horsemanship.
The chief qualifications of an expert polo player are the ability to
measure distance while riding at top speed, the knowledge when and where
to race, and the judgment and skill to play a waiting game at times. The
best player should be a past master of all the strategies and tactics of
a cavalry horseman.
Besides this, it requires courage. A player must have the kind of nerve
that would face unflinchingly a hand-to-hand struggle for life on the
battlefield.
The friends of Frank and Jack hastened to congratulate them, with the
exception of Browning and Hodge. The former was too lazy to exert
himself so much, and the latter was in the "dumps," as the sulky look on
his face plainly indicated.
"Gol darned if I ever saw sich a crummy lookin' hoss as that what could
git araound so humpin' lively!" declared Ephraim Gallup.
"Yaw, dut bony peen lifely as a pedpugs," nodded Hans. "Vot vould you
take for him uf you vant to bought him, Vrankie?"
"Merry, me b'y," put in the Irish lad, "it's a lulu ye are, an' Diamond
is a p'ache; but it's thot spalpane Finton ye want to be lookin' afther
roight sharrup, fer Oi saw him swat at yez."
"Don't worry, Barney," said Frank. "I'll keep watch of him."
Iva St. Ives chatted with Harry Harden, while from a distance, Stephen
Fenton chewed his dark mustache and watched them sullenly, muttering to
himself.
There was a sudden hurrying out from the stable.
"Time!"
Bang!--sounded the gong, and once more the game was on.
"Now play, boys!" cried Paul Stone. "We won't waste any time. Don't fool
with it! Hit it hard!"
Fenton was on the ball, and he struck it as if an engine was back of
him. The sphere flew over the grass, and Liner took his rider in hot
pursuit.
Harden tried to get in at the ball, but was cleverly hustled by Kimball.
It seemed plain sailing. The Meadowfairs were going at it with a rush,
and it looked like a goal at once.
Another hundred feet, and then, with a clever stroke, Fenton passed the
ball to the mallet of Hawley. But Hawley's stick was too short by three
inches, and he missed on the swing.
Harden was making a hard push for the ball, and Fenton, who was
following it up, tried to crowd him. They came along side by side, with
their knees jammed together as the ponies raced.
Then--how was it done? Liner seemed to stop suddenly, as if turned to
stone, and Harden was torn from the saddle of his pony, which shot on
without him. He fell heavily to the ground in the very track of the
whole mass of onrushing ponies.
A scream of fear broke from Iva St. Ives, who was watching it all, for
it seemed that Harden was doomed to be severely injured beneath the
hoofs of the ponies--perhaps killed.
Frank was slightly in advance of the others, and, quick as thought, he
leaned far over to one side, like a cowboy, and his hand fastened on the
belt of the fallen player.
Harden was too heavy for Merriwell to swing back into the saddle, but he
carried the young man along till the other players could swerve aside,
and he did not drop him till he could stop Coffin Head.
In a moment Harden was on his feet, and, as he sprang up, the spectators
broke into loud cheers.
"Thank you, Merriwell!" exclaimed the man Frank had thus cleverly saved
by a cowboy trick. "I won't forget that."
Then he darted away after his pony, apparently uninjured.
"I know it was a foul trick that flung him from the saddle," thought
Frank. "I wonder why the referee doesn't declare a foul? Is there some
kind of a job in this?"
Then a shout came from his lips as he awoke to the fact that the game
was still on, and Diamond had cleverly prevented Fenton from making a
goal.
Coffin Head was away after the ball almost before the shout came from
Frank's lips. As if nothing of an unusual nature had happened, the game
continued.
Hawley tried to cut Merriwell off from the ball, but old Coffin Head
would not have it, and Frank got in a crack that made the spectators
shout with delight. Then Kimball shot across ahead of Frank, and Kenneth
St. Ives found a chance to carry the ball down the field, but broke his
stick trying to strike a goal, and was forced to ride out of bounds for
another mallet.
Luckily for Springbrook, Diamond was playing the game of his life. He
came down and drove the ball from under the nose of Kimball's pony,
making another goal just as the first half closed.
Then came a rest of ten minutes, during which the ponies were rubbed
down and the perspiring but enthusiastic players secured a respite.
Frank was quickly surrounded by an admiring throng. Pretty girls crowded
about him, and sought an introduction, and men came up and felt of his
arms, expressing their amazement that he should have been able to rescue
Harden from beneath the feet of the charging ponies.
This was all very embarrassing for him, and he sought to get away. As
soon as possible, he joined his friends, but they were ready with
congratulations.
"It must have been tough, don't you know," yawned Browning; "but it was
clever, Merriwell--confounded clever."
"It was a dandy trick!" cried Harry Rattleton, bubbling with enthusiasm
and admiration. "What'll the fellows at Old Yale say when they hear of
your cowboy trick, Merry?"
"For Heaven's sake, don't tell them about it!" exclaimed Frank. "What is
there to make such a fuss over?"
"Gol darned if I don't think that feller was throwed off his hoss by
Fenton!" put in Ephraim. "I couldn't see just haow the trick was done,
but I bet four dozen aigs it was done somehow."
On this point Frank was silent.
Soon the gong sounded again, and the play was on once more. The
Meadowfair men seemed desperate, and they fought like tigers. Three
times within as many minutes the ball was forced down so near the
Springbrook goal posts that a clever strike would have made a goal, and
three times, mounted on old Coffin Head, Frank Merriwell sent it back
into the center of the field.
On the third trip, Kenneth St. Ives got in a clever stroke and passed it
to Diamond, who had been playing a waiting game. Jack saw his chance,
and he rushed it for the Meadowfair posts.
Fenton charged on Jack like a whirlwind, but made a miss stroke, and the
Virginian rushed the white sphere down through the posts, making another
goal for Springbrook.
Two minutes' rest followed, and then the ball was put in again.
The face of Stephen Fenton was dark with anger, and he played as if
possessed by a fiend. But all his work was vain, for Springbrook made
three goals in the last half, and the game closed with a complete
whitewash for Meadowfair.