“How’s the score?” the technician demanded of a spectator.
“Six to four in favor of the Internationals.”
Flash carefully looked over the field as he focused his camera. Two riders were outstanding, Rajah Mitra for the Internationals, and Herbert Rascomb on the American team. Mitra, a handsome, dark man of thirty, handled his mount expertly. His clashes with Rascomb were frequent.
Deliberately, Flash trained the camera lens upon them. Doyle’s protest was immediate and explosive.
“Say, what’s the idea? Do you want to make Rascomb sore?”
“Since when are we working for him?” Flash countered. “We’re here to get good pictures. He happens to be one of the best players on the field.”
The argument might have waxed warmer, but just then the chukker ended with a spectacular goal made by Rascomb. He wheeled his horse, a beautiful black mare, and rode over to the sound wagon.
“Good afternoon, boys,” he said heartily. “Taking a few pictures?”
“News-Vue,” Doyle replied. “That last shot of yours was pretty, Mr. Rascomb.”
“Thank you, thank you.” The sportsman doffed his cork helmet mockingly, and his lips parted in a smile. “The fact is, Rajah Mitra is too fast for me today. A marvelous player, that man!”