“Vell, I hope so,” said the Dutch boy, blankly. “I don’t vant dese von to peen der last von.”
After breakfast a jolly party came over from the Meadowfair clubhouse, five miles away. There were nearly a dozen young ladies, and half as many gentlemen. It was plain they were in the habit of visiting Springbrook Farm often, for they were warmly welcomed, and made themselves quite at home.
“This is jolly!” cried Kenneth St. Ives, as he introduced Frank to Paul Stone, the leader of the party. “I knew something in the way of sport would turn up to-day. Do you play polo, Mr. Merriwell?”
“Yes,” nodded Frank, with unusual eagerness; “I have played the game, but it has been some time since I have touched a mallet.”
“Mr. Stone is a member of the American Polo Association, as also is Steve Fenton, my cousin. Harden and I have applied, and we expect to get in. Father has caused a beautiful green to be laid over yonder. He has worked upon it till it is as solid as the finest green in the country, and we are looking to enjoy several meets here before we return to the city. We have been having a few games, and I think it is royal sport.”
“It is the greatest sport in the world!” exclaimed Paul Stone, enthusiastically.
Frank smiled.
“It can’t be that you have played much football or baseball, Mr. Stone,” he said.
“Baseball hasn’t the dash and go of polo,” declared Stone; “and too many accidents happen at football. It is a dangerous game.”
“There is some danger in polo,” said Merry.