CHAPTER XXV—THE END OF THE GAME
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.