“Goals made by Yale, fifteen; by New London, four.”
Dade Morgan was gnawing his smiling lips, in his seat in the balcony.
“Curse the fellows, they have failed me!” he was thinking.
Then he saw Bascom jostle heavily against Dick Starbright! saw a sudden altercation, and beheld Bascom’s polo-stick flash through the air. When it fell, Dick Starbright fell with it.
The crowd was rising and streaming out of the building. Bascom dived to the nearest netting, which he cut away with furious slashes of a knife, leaped through the opening thus made, pushed aside the men who were there, and sprang for a small door, the position of which he had previously ascertained. Before the extent of Starbright’s injury could be known or a pursuit organized Bascom was gone.
Frank Merriwell was the first to reach Starbright. He lifted Dick and saw that the polo-stick had struck his head. There was a small gash and some blood. But Frank saw almost immediately that, though the blow had knocked Starbright senseless, its effects were not likely to be of a serious character.
A doctor came out of the crowd, and an excited group soon gathered in the “surface.”
Bart Hodge and others were trying to discover what had become of Bascom. The other members of the New London polo-team pushed into the crowd and expressed their sympathy, and were free in their declarations that Bascom must have acted in a fit of anger on the impulse of the moment and without any malice.
Dick Starbright did not long remain unconscious. The blow had been aimed well enough, but Dick’s upthrust arm had deflected it and it had fallen glancingly, producing only temporary concussion.
“Oh, he’s all right!”