THE POLO KING.
Saturday morning the Yale forces trooped to New London. The number of
persons who went that morning, or said they were going later in the day,
was really surprising. That such a mob should be drawn to New London to
see a polo-game between Merriwell’s team and an unknown team of New
London was, on the surface, unaccountable; yet Merriwell’s friends
accounted for it by the fact that Merriwell and the men who composed his
five were wonderfully popular, and that a tremendous interest had been
aroused by the sky-rockety character of the betting.
But there was something below the surface that they did not see; the
crafty hand and brain of Dade Morgan, and the mysterious man who was
standing behind him urging him on. Santenel wanted the mob bound for New
London to swallow up every Yale man who was likely to interfere with his
plans concerning Charles Conrad Merriwell. Hence Morgan sent all of his
friends and adherents, and all the enemies of Merriwell he could muster,
knowing that this would cause a counter rally of the friends of
Merriwell and take them to New London, also.
But the elder Merriwell himself was not going. He could not go, he told
Frank, because he had received a telegram from a broker who was handling
Western mining stock for him, and who was coming on from New York that
day for a business interview.
The importance of the occasion seemed to demand music, and Dashleigh’s
mandolin club invaded the New London train, loaded down with cases
containing mandolins, guitars, and various other musical instruments.
The crowd was very jolly and very musical, and bellowed such classics as
“Good-by, Lady!” and “Good-by, My Lover, Good-by!” until many of the
passengers who were not interested in such things, and particularly some
Boston drummers on their way to Providence, who were investigating the
mysteries of a jack-pot at the other end of the car, wished that
mandolins had never been invented, or that musically inclined students
had all been born dumb.
Dashleigh and his fellow musicians were supremely satisfied with
themselves, however, and with the world in general, proving it by
bubbling over with exuberant spirits. Dashleigh and Starbright had taken
the first train, in order that they might get ahead of the crowd and
secure good hotel accommodations. When New London was reached, and,
finding there a great crowd assembled, Starbright put his bulky weight
in the advance, with Dashleigh and the mandolin club trailing after him,
and plowed a wide furrow through the crowd and escaped to a hotel in
time to get the desired rooms and accommodations.
“There’s only one thing that can save my mandolin,” said Bert, when he
and Dick were ensconced in comfort and security. “You’ll have to lend me
another tenner. And, then, it may not save it.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, I haven’t money enough to liquidate for this gorgeousness.”
Starbright frowned.
“Been betting some more?”
“Well, you see, I couldn’t help it. And I’ve about bet the mandolin.”
“How was that?”
“Well, you see, Rol Packard shook a fiver under my nose, and I told him
I hadn’t any more money, but would put my mandolin against it.”
Starbright sighed.
“Dashleigh, you’ll bet the coat off your back next!”
“There are others! And I’ll be all right as soon as I get the money I’ve
already won.”
Indeed, there were “others” of Merriwell’s friends who were as wild in
their betting as Bert Dashleigh.
The game was to be called at half-past two o’clock. Before that hour the
polo-rink was crowded with men and boys, Yale students and pretty girls,
who were interestedly watching a preliminary match-game between two New
London teams of amateurs.
Dashleigh’s mandolin club was there, in seats at one end of the big
rectangular “surface,” thumping away in the intervals of play.
The blue colors of Yale were everywhere conspicuous, as if to refute the
assertions of Merriwell’s enemies that Frank’s team was not an
accredited Yale institution. More blue would not have been displayed if
a regular Yale college five was about to meet a five from another great
university. The crowd grew denser and denser, as the watches showed the
approach of the hour.
By and by the amateurs concluded their playing, and the New London team,
which was a New London team in name only, came upon the “surface” for a
warming-up before meeting Merriwell’s men.
While they were engaged in this, Frank and his five entered the room,
their entrance immediately attracting attention. They came in, clothed
in their roller-polo costume, with roller-skates on their feet.
Then more than half the crowd seemed to rise up; and, led by Bill
Higgins, who swung his big sombrero and yelled like an Indian at a
horse-race, they gave Merriwell and his men a rousing cheer. Dade Morgan
whitened with rage.
“Hear the fools!” he inwardly snarled. “When will they ever get done
worshiping Merriwell?”
The difference between the two teams was marked. Two of the opposing
team looked like New York toughs, which they were, and the captain was a
truculent-looking fellow, with eyes set close together.
When the New London team gave way for Merriwell’s, and Frank led his men
on the floor for practise, the difference between the teams was so
noticeable that Higgins again started a cheer which seemed to rock the
building.
“I thould like to get that fellowth wope awound hith neck and choke
him!” Lew Veazie disgustedly lisped to his chums of the Chickering set,
as he listened to the cowboy’s bellowing. “It maketh me thick!”
“You’ll be sicker before the game is over!” said Beckwith, the big guard
of the Yale football-team, who chanced to overhear him. “It makes me
ashamed to know that you fellows are Yale men.”
“But Merriwell’s isn’t a Yale team!” snarled Skelding.
“Oh, it isn’t? Well, the best men in Yale think so. Listen to that
yelling, if you don’t believe it! Look at those blue ribbons, if you
don’t believe it! Merriwell is the king of Yale, and you know it, you
miserable puppies!”
“If he wathn’t tho big I’d thump him!” Veazie gasped, when Beckwith had
pushed on. “Why, the audathious villain!”
Merriwell’s team finished its practise. Silence reigned; even
Dashleigh’s mandolin club ceasing its efforts when the hour arrived for
the match-game on which so much was staked.
The referee came upon the floor, or “surface,” with the ball, and the
teams grouped in front of the goal-cages. This was the line-up of the
teams:
YALE. POSITION. NEW LONDON.
Merriwell Rush Crowder.
Starbright Rush Gates.
Ready Center Mehan.
Hodge Half-back Weathers.
Browning Goal Bascom.
The referee placed the rubber-covered polo-ball on the spot in the
middle of the floor. The members of the teams, who had been standing in
front of their respective goal-cages, straightened up and leaned
strainingly forward, ready to dash for the ball when the whistle
sounded.
The referee stepped to one side of the surface when he had placed the
ball, and put his whistle to his lips. Crowder, who was captain and
rush—he of the narrow eyes and truculent face—was in motion before the
sharp blast cut the air, but the referee did not send him back, and the
whistle blew almost immediately. Then Frank went down the floor like a
shot, and from under Crowder’s outstretched stick uncovered the spot and
sent the ball bang against the planking at the back of the New London
cage.
Bill Higgins opened up again with the roar of a buffalo, and the Yale
men yelled.
Weathers, the New London half-back, got the ball and sent it flying
toward the middle of the surface, where Ready blocked its passage with
his feet and shot it again toward the New London goal. Bascom was in
front of it, however, and kicked it away with a savage snarl, as if he
were kicking at an enemy’s head. He was big and fat, with an enormous
face and an unwholesome form.
Then Weathers struck the ball; but it was stopped by Hodge, and there
was a furious mix-up near the center of the floor, from out of the midst
of which the ball was shot by Starbright.
Mehan now took a hand and skipped the ball toward the Yale end; and
Gates, getting in ahead of Starbright and Merriwell, shot it for the
Yale goal.
Big Bruce Browning was there, however, with legs and stick ready for
duty, and he blocked the play, driving the ball to one side.
Gates, who was a fast skater, got behind it with his stick and again
sent it toward Bruce. It missed the goal, however, going behind it; and
a struggle for its possession ensued between Crowder and Starbright,
Crowder roughly trying to shoulder Dick out of the way; but in the
attempt he was hurled against the planking, and the ball, dragged by
Starbright’s stick away from the wall and from behind the goal, was
caromed by him to Ready, who ran with it down the floor and shot it
toward the New London end of the surface.
Here another fight ensued for its possession, the ball being batted and
banged about, stopped by clubs and feet and sticks, until it was flirted
out of the mêlée by Bart Hodge and again flew toward the New London
goal.
Bascom was in place. He kicked it out of the way, and, lunging for
another kick, uncovered the ball, and Merriwell shot the ball into the
cage.
The first goal of the play had been made.
The teams now changed goals; and, while this was being done and they
were getting in readiness for the next play, Dashleigh’s mandolin club
began to “discourse sweet music,” which was drowned, however by the
yells of the Yale men, led by Bill Higgins.
The yelling and the music ceased as the referee advanced again toward
the middle of the floor with the ball. The contesting teams crouched in
readiness while he put the ball on the spot. Then, before walking aside,
the referee made his announcement:
“First goal, Yale; made by Merriwell. Time, two minutes and twenty
seconds.”
He put the whistle to his lips, having walked aside while concluding the
announcement, and Crowder started. The referee waved him back; then
sounded his whistle, and the rushers darted out.
Again Merriwell got the ball and sent it flying down the floor. It was
stopped by Mehan, the New London center; but Ready took it away from him
and sent it again toward the New London goal, where it was stopped by
the fat goal-end, who knocked it back with his stick. Then Hodge
succeeded in getting the ball and started down the floor with it,
driving past Mehan and Weathers. But Gates, who had skated round in a
half-circle, stopped the ball with his stick before it reached the
goal-end.
Bang! Weathers drove it straight and hard to the Yale end of the floor
and against the planking, Starbright and Merriwell drove it from the
vicinity of the Yale goal, Merriwell running it down to Starbright and
the latter passing it around Crowder by a handsome carom against the
wall and on to Hodge, who again tried to drive a goal.
But in doing so he slipped and came down with a thump on the floor. One
of his skates had broken. The referee’s whistle blew and time was given
for Bart to put on other skates.
Dade Morgan, who had secured a good seat in one of the side galleries,
which enabled him to look down on the surface and observe every movement
of the players, found it difficult to keep the smile on his face. He
fiercely wanted the New London men to win—not because of the bets which
had been made, but because he fancied the loss of the game would
humiliate Merriwell and Starbright.
He was watching Mehan and Bascom, who, with others, were walking about
the floor near their goal with their skates skewed to the sides of their
feet, in this interval of play. Bascom and Mehan were the men from New
York who had been hired by him to knock out Dick Starbright, by breaking
his arm, or otherwise seriously injuring him before the end of the game.
Dade was thinking, too, as he looked at them, of what he fancied was
transpiring in New Haven at that time, and rejoicing in the probably
successful result of the efforts of Dion Santenel to snare Charles
Conrad Merriwell.
“I’m afraid that Merriwell’s men are the better players,” he was forced
to confess to himself. “But only one goal has been made, and there are
plenty of chances. Anyway, if one of those fellows knocks out Starbright
satisfactorily I shall be satisfied, whichever way the game goes.”
Again the game was on, the skaters flying here and there after the
elusive sphere, swooping down on it from all quarters, as it skipped
back and forth under the constant strokes of the sticks.
It was clearly to be seen that Merriwell’s men were the more scientific
players. They did not hammer at the ball constantly, as if trying to
smash it into dust, as the New Londoners did, but made team plays,
gliding the ball from man to man around opposition players, caroming it
against the walls and skilfully shooting it for goal.
The playing of the New London men was of the slugger type, as befitted
their appearance. Bascom, their goal-tend, was savage and fierce as a
chained wolf, hopping about in front of the cage, kicking at the ball,
striking at it, and frantically warding it off when it was shot at the
cage. Now and then he lifted his club and glared at the Yale men as they
swooped on him, as if he desired to hammer their heads. More than once
Mehan caught a Yale player round the shoulders and pushed him about, yet
the referee did not announce a foul.
Mehan tried this once too often, jamming with terrific force into Dick
Starbright, who was skating in the opposite direction. The result was
disastrous to the New London man, who was hurled from his feet by the
force of the impact, being literally lifted by Starbright’s greater
weight and strength. He fell with a crash, striking his head on the
floor, and lay for a moment stunned.
The referee blew his whistle; and, as if to cover up the confusion,
Dashleigh’s band began to play.
“I’ll git even with ye for that!” Mehan growled viciously, as he crawled
to his feet.
Then it was found that in the fall he had broken his skate, and a wait
was occasioned.
“Look out for that fellow, Dick!” Frank warned. “He has been acting ugly
toward you ever since the game began. Once, when he struck at the ball
in the air, as if his stick were a baseball bat, and missed it, I
thought he really struck at you. I believe now he did!”
“Oh, I saw the rascal!” Dick smiled. “I’ve been watching him ever since.
But I don’t fancy he will care to run into me again, as he did just
then.”
The fierceness of the New London men seemed to increase when the play
began again, and within two minutes they had caged the ball, catching
Browning off his guard and shooting the sphere between his legs.
Then how the friends of Dade Morgan cheered, in spite of the fact that
the goal had been won from Yale!
“They’re fools!” Morgan snarled to himself. “I warned them against
making such a show of themselves; but lots of fellows haven’t any more
tact than to exhibit themselves in that way.”
Yet he was so pleased that the smile came to his face without any effort
on his part.
Dashleigh’s band was again twanging away, but its strains could not
soothe the heart of Morgan, who, in that moment of temporary victory,
felt that he hated Merriwell and Starbright more than he had ever hated
them.
When the playing recommenced it was fast and furious, and within less
than a minute Starbright made a goal. Then Crowder drove a goal for New
London, the score was again tied, and the referee’s whistle blew,
announcing the end of the first period of the match.
When the referee’s whistle blew again and the game recommenced,
Merriwell reached the ball first and sent it flying for goal. Bascom
stopped it with his padded shins, kicked it away, and a fight for its
possession took place near the middle of the floor.
Then Starbright secured it and drove it again toward the New London
goal; but Weathers, the half-back, blocked it with his feet, and it shot
to one side of the hall, with four or five men diving after it. Ready
was there, and drove it into the New London goal, but it bounded out;
and another struggle for its possession ensued, right in front of the
cage, yet far enough away to prevent the calling of a foul. Hodge now
got the ball and shot it into the cage, and it stayed there.
There was a transference of goals, and the game was renewed. Again
Merriwell drove the ball for the cage; but Bascom, the goal-tend,
stopped it with his foot. Weathers skipped it back to the middle of the
floor, where there was a struggle for it, and such hot work that the
spectators were brought up standing with a yell.
The New London men secured the ball and fought their way toward the Yale
end. But Browning was there, and, though they made a desperate effort to
put the ball in the cage, he prevented it.
Starbright drew the ball out of the mix-up, but lost it; and, to keep it
from being caged, Ready shot it behind the goal. It caromed against the
wall, flying to Merriwell’s side, and before Crowder could get to him,
Merriwell shot it for a goal.
It went across the room like a streak of light. Bascom jumped to prevent
it from going into the cage, but missed it; and another goal was added
to the score of Merriwell’s side.
Again goals were changed, but before another score was made by either
team the referee’s whistle blew, announcing the end of the second period
of the game. The work had been so hot and fierce that neither spectators
nor players had realized the quick passage of time, and the sound of the
whistle came as a surprise.
Bascom, the fat goal-tend of the New London team, who had worked with
such savage energy, was dripping with perspiration, and all of the men
were more or less blown.
Whizz—plunk! The game was on again, and Merriwell had again driven the
ball into the New London cage. Morgan’s face looked black. He had
forgotten to smile. He saw that Merriwell’s men were playing now, and
that the New London sluggers, though they were fierce fighters, were
really no match for the Yale five.
The goals were changed, and the battle raged anew. Crowder was furious.
At the sound of the whistle he tried to take the ball off the spot ahead
of Merriwell, a thing he had not yet been able to do. But Frank took the
ball, as before, and shot it past him, bang against the netting of the
cage. It bounded out, was caught up by Weathers’ stick, and danced to
the middle of the floor. Then Mehan sent it along, and there was another
tussle near the Yale goal.
In the struggle that ensued, Mehan struck savagely at Dick Starbright’s
head. Dick saw the blow coming and dodged, and the stick, swinging over
and banging against the floor, was broken short off.
The ball had been in the air at the time, and Mehan, profusely
apologizing, declared that the blow had not been aimed at Dick, but at
the ball; and, after another stick had been given to him, the game was
renewed.
“See here!” Dick hissed, when he was skating by the fellow, “if that
happens again, I’ll know it’s no accident, and I’ll thump you as soon as
the game is over. See?”
Mehan whitened, but made no answer.
The New London men, appearing now to realize that if they were not to be
defeated badly they must make a fierce fight, began another effort to
cage the ball on the Yale side. But Merriwell’s men pushed the ball away
from the neighborhood of their goal out into the center of the floor. It
came back, however, and Bruce time and again stopped it, in a way to win
admiration from the spectators.
“They can’t get it past him!” Bill Higgins bellowed, hopping up and down
in his excitement and waving his big sombrero, while his great spurs
tinkled and jingled.
Two more skates were broken, and stops were made. Then Bruce, trying to
stop a ball, pitched forward headlong on the floor, and Crowder, who was
striking at the ball, deflected his stick and struck Bruce heavily over
the head.
“It was an accident,” was the verdict of the referee.
Bruce’s head was bandaged, and, though he felt so dizzy from the effect
of the blow that he could hardly stand, he remained at his post.
Then Ready drove another goal, and Bill Higgins whooped.
“Them New London fellers’ll never git another!” he yelled.
But they did. The New London men rallied, and in less than two minutes
made two goals, setting their sympathizers wild with excitement.
“I ought to have prevented that,” Bruce apologized. “If I do that again,
Merry, take me off the team.”
But Frank knew that New London would not have made those goals if Bruce
had been in his usual condition, and he kindly told the big fellow so.
The pain seemed somehow to go out of Bruce’s head after that, so that,
when the next time the ball came skipping toward him, he blocked it
promptly with his padded shins, and sent it flying back to the other end
of the room with his stick. Again the battle was forced out into the
middle of the rink.
Two goals were made, one by Starbright and the other by Merriwell. The
New London men, growing more and more furious, tried again and again to
cage the ball; but Bruce Browning was seemingly himself again, and each
time cleverly blocked it and kept the Yale cage empty.
“Beat ’em out of sight!” Higgins yelled from his seat in the balcony;
and Merriwell seemed suddenly to resolve to do this, and show the
spectators what real polo-playing looked like. He was angered, too, by
the dastardly blow which had been given Bruce and by the attempt against
Starbright.
There were not many minutes more of play, but in that time Merriwell
proved his worthiness of the title of Polo King. Again and again the New
London men came charging down the room with a clanking roar, for a
struggle for the ball, but Merriwell’s men, seeming to be imbued with
the resolution which had come to Frank, met them firmly, took the ball
from them easily, and, shooting it from man to man in beautiful team
play, caged it again and again. Ready caged a goal, being followed by
Bart Hodge, and he by Dick Starbright. Each time, when these goals were
made, it was Merriwell who sent the ball to the one who made the goal,
sending it at just the right time and in just the right way to enable
the player to do the work.
Then Merriwell himself took a hand at the work of goal-making, and caged
the ball twice in less than two minutes of play.
The New London men found that they simply were not in it, though they
tried to pull themselves together and prevent this furious goal-making
on the part of the Yale team. Bascom hopped up and down and to and fro
in front of the cage, like the proverbial chicken on the proverbial pan
of live coals. He lunged, kicked, flounced, and writhed; but he could
not prevent the goals, for they seemed to shoot from Merry’s stick past
his lunging feet, over them, under them, and between them.
Everybody in the big barnlike building was standing up in mad
excitement, as the game thus drew toward its close, and Bill Higgins was
whooping as if he meant to take off the roof.
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