“Don’t worry, Barney,” said Frank. “I’ll keep watch of him.”
Iva St. Ives chatted with Harry Harden, while from a distance, Stephen Fenton chewed his dark mustache and watched them sullenly, muttering to himself.
There was a sudden hurrying out from the stable.
“Time!”
Bang!—sounded the gong, and once more the game was on.
“Now play, boys!” cried Paul Stone. “We won’t waste any time. Don’t fool with it! Hit it hard!”
Fenton was on the ball, and he struck it as if an engine was back of him. The sphere flew over the grass, and Liner took his rider in hot pursuit.
Harden tried to get in at the ball, but was cleverly hustled by Kimball. It seemed plain sailing. The Meadowfairs were going at it with a rush, and it looked like a goal at once.
Another hundred feet, and then, with a clever stroke, Fenton passed the ball to the mallet of Hawley. But Hawley’s stick was too short by three inches, and he missed on the swing.
Harden was making a hard push for the ball, and Fenton, who was following it up, tried to crowd him. They came along side by side, with their knees jammed together as the ponies raced.