“Git doawn an’ crawl, gol darn ye!” whooped Ephraim. “Naow hit her a knockaout blow, and—— Great gosh!”
In a most skillful manner Fenton’s pony had forced Diamond’s mount over, and the dark-faced man swung across in time to get a crack at the ball. The skill with which he struck it told that he was the most dangerous player on the Meadowfair side.
“Look out there, Harden!” cried St. Ives.
Harry stopped the ball, but it caromed from his mallet and came near going out of bounds. In a twinkling there was another hot rush and a threatened crash. Immediately all the players were clumped about the ball.
“Where are you, number one?” cried Paul Stone. “Strike, Kimball—strike, man! What’s the matter with you?”
For some moments the ball “hung,” and the players “dribbled”; but they were cool, and Lock made a neat and quick turn, passing the ball to Fenton, who took it up and hit it to boundary.
Over the board went the ponies, and the sticks crooked as they tried to give the ball a fillip outside. But Diamond, “half-back” for Springbrook, saw his opportunity, made a rush and a hard backhander on the near side, and out shot the little white sphere on its way to glory.
Merriwell was on it, as if he had been waiting for that very play. His stick, which he had selected with great care, seemed to swing free for a moment from the strap about his wrist, then the malacca did its work.
“Hooray!” cried Ephraim Gallup. “It’s a goal sure! Hooray!”
“Yaw!” screamed Hans, “id peen a dandy!”