“Oh, well, if you’re going to play partners against me!” And the Poet threw down his mallet.
“There’s no rule against coaching,” snapped Galatea.
But the Artist’s mind was not on croquet. The game resolved itself into a contest between the Poet and his sister as to which should take the greatest liberties with his ball. Thus they were neck and neck at the centre arch on the home stretch, with the Artist still at his second arch. Galatea missed, and the Poet found himself in cocksure position for the last two arches and the stake.
By this time all the four-legged members of the firm of Bos, Equus and Co. had drawn near and were watching the progress of the game with lively curiosity. Reginald, with his customary assurance, now advanced with ingratiating grunts out of the side of his mouth, and rubbed his side against the Poet’s leg, who had a sudden inspiration.
“Two to one I can make it with the pig’s legs for arches,” he said.
Galatea experienced renewed hope. The Poet cajoled Reginald into standing between the two arches with his kinked tail resting upon the one nearest the stake. There was a narrow, though clear, space between his legs, in line with the arches.
ALL THE FOUR-LEGGED MEMBERS OF THE FIRM HAD DRAWN NEAR
“Attention, Reginald!” and the Poet struck his ball with just the requisite force to send it through the two arches.
Unfortunately, at that instant Reginald sat down, and the ball, striking his fat stomach, bounced hopelessly out of position. Galatea dropped on the grass and shrieked.