Poultney Masters plodded in, his broad paunch shaking with chuckles. “‘Leave it to the horse,’” he mumbled appreciatively. “‘Leave it to the horse.’ It’s good. It’s damned good. The right answer. Who but the horse should know whether a man rides like a gentleman! Where’s young Banneker?”
Forster introduced the two. “You’ve got the makings of a polo-man in you,” decreed the great man. “Where are you playing?”
“I’ve never really played. Just practiced.”
“Then you ought to be with us. Where’s Densmore? We’ll put you up and have you in by the next meeting.”
“A reporter in The Retreat!” protested Kirke who had proffered the bet.
“Why not?” snapped old Poultney Masters. “Got any objections?”
Since the making or marring of his fortunes, like those of hundreds of other men, lay in the pudgy hollow of the financier’s hand, poor Kirke had no objections which he could not and did not at once swallow. The subject of the flattering offer had, however.
“I’m much obliged,” said he. “But I couldn’t join this club. Can’t afford it.”
“You can’t afford not to. It’s a chance not many young fellows from nowhere get.”
“Perhaps you don’t know what a reporter’s earnings are, Mr. Masters.”