“G’way dar, boy!” muttered Toots, shaking his head. “Don’t yeh beliebe yehself! Dey don’ mek no guy ob dat boy ver’ much.”
“Say, Browning,” cried Rattleton, excitedly, “you ought to know better than to think anybody can fake a mool—I mean make a fool of Frank.”
“Yaw!” nodded Hans; “I oughter known petter dan dot, hand’t you? Vot do I take you for, Prowning! Vere you peen all my life, ain’d id? You don’d fool Vrankie Merrivell haluf so much as I think you can, you pet my axidental bolicy.”
In the opening charge Frank did not get in quite as quick as the others. Mounted on Liner, Steve Fenton shot down on the ball, and with a skillful crack, sent it skimming toward the Springbrook goal, causing a shout to go up from the spectators.
“He’ll make a goal for Meadowfair, in less than two——Great Scott! how’d the boy do that?”
Frank, somewhat behind the others, had caught the ball as it skimmed like a bullet over the ground, even though it seemed that he must have swung his mallet almost at the same instant as Fenton. The first crack was answered by a second, and the basswood ball suddenly went skimming back toward the Meadowfair side, with Diamond racing after it to send it through.
But Liner showed his mettle. It did not seem that Fenton paid the least attention to the pony, but the creature twisted about in a moment, and carried its rider along at Diamond’s side.
It was a brief but most exciting race, and the spectators cheered and waved their handkerchiefs.
“Go it, Diamond, old boy!” cried Harry Rattleton.
“Go id, Shack, oldt poy!” shouted Hans, hopping about like a toad. “You vill pet on my head!”