“Outside! outside!”
“Who says outside?” snapped Rattleton. “The referee? I know better! It’s a goal sure!”
“Outside, I tell you!” came the voice of the referee, and the game stopped.
It was a disappointment for Frank’s friends, for they had felt certain he would make a goal, but the fairness of the referee was not to be questioned.
The captain of the Meadowfairs had the strike-off, and the Springbrooks fell back from the line.
But Stone was cunning, and he gave the ball a clever sweep to right field, and away from his goal. His “forward” knew the trick, and Liner was keyed up for a race to boundary.
But Frank had seen that trick before, and he resolved to find out what sort of stuff Coffin Head was made of, now that there was a good opportunity. The pony had handled himself with such ease and skill, for all of his awkward and homely appearance, that Merry was more than delighted, and now came the supreme test.
Liner flew out after the ball, upon which Fenton’s eyes were steadily fastened. But Coffin Head was in the race, and the old crock didn’t do a thing but spread himself. The way he tore along over the ground amazed everybody who saw it. It seemed that the old horse had renewed his youth and was out for blood. He made the run of his life to get his rider on that ball. Like a meteor he flew across the green, and Liner was fairly beaten, causing Frank Merriwell’s friends and admirers to rise up and shout with astonishment and delight.
The check was too sudden, however, and the old pony slid on his haunches. Then up rushed a mass of men and ponies, making for a moment a wild mêlée.
Kimball got a crack at the ball, but it glanced off the ribs of Harden’s pony, causing the animal to wince and swerve.