"It seems to deserve its reputation as the summit of sport," he replied.
He answered so easily that she could not decide whether he was evading or not; and somehow, just then, she found it impossible to put the simple question direct again.
"Good! Good, Don!" she cried enthusiastically and clapped her hands as Avery suddenly raced before them, caught the ball with a swinging, back-handed stroke and drove it directly toward his opponent's goal. Instantly whirling his mount, Avery raced away after the ball, and with another clean stroke scored a goal. Every one about cried out in approbation.
"He's very quick and clever, isn't he?" Harriet said to Eaton.
Eaton nodded. "Yes; he's by all odds the most skillful man on the field, I should say."
The generosity of the praise impelled the girl, somehow, to qualify it. "But only two others really have played much—that man and that."
"Yes, I picked them as the experienced ones," Eaton said quietly.
"The others—two of them, at least—are out for the first time, I think."
They watched the rapid course of the ball up and down the field, the scurry and scamper of the ponies after it, then the clash of a mêlée again.
Two ponies went down, and their riders were flung. When they arose, one of the least experienced boys limped apologetically from the field. Avery rode to the barrier.