“Just enough to make it spicy,” declared Stone. “There is not as much danger of getting broken noses and broken necks as in football.”
Frank’s blood was beginning to bound in his veins, for the thought of a hot, exciting polo game, with its sharp races and its fierce charges, was quite enough to arouse the sporting instinct within him. He was like a war horse that sniffs the smoke of battle from afar.
“Well,” he cried, “if there is to be a polo match, I’d like to get into it.”
“You can,” laughed Kenneth. “You shall have Liner, the finest pony in our bunch. That animal knows as much as a human being. Why, he can almost play polo alone!”
A short distance away Stephen Fenton was talking with another of the Meadowfair party. He was trying to be sociable in his sullen way, but his ears were open to all that was passing near at hand, and he plainly heard the conversation concerning polo.
Kimball, the man Fenton was talking with, also heard something of it, and he exclaimed:
“Polo is the very thing! I had thought of a coaching party, but it is too late for that this morning. You’ll play polo, won’t you, Fenton?”
“Yes,” nodded Fenton, “I’ll play with your side.”
“I think that will be agreeable to Stone,” said Kimball; “but I don’t believe Springbrook will want to give you up.”
“Well, I’ll not play with those stiffs,” muttered the sullen-faced fellow. “I want a good opportunity to play against them.”