Frank Merriwell's Champions Part 39

It was a disappointment for Frank's friends, for they had felt certain he would make a goal, but the fairness of the referee was not to be questioned.

The captain of the Meadowfairs had the strike-off, and the Springbrooks fell back from the line.

But Stone was cunning, and he gave the ball a clever sweep to right field, and away from his goal. His "forward" knew the trick, and Liner was keyed up for a race to boundary.

But Frank had seen that trick before, and he resolved to find out what sort of stuff Coffin Head was made of, now that there was a good opportunity. The pony had handled himself with such ease and skill, for all of his awkward and homely appearance, that Merry was more than delighted, and now came the supreme test.

Liner flew out after the ball, upon which Fenton's eyes were steadily fastened. But Coffin Head was in the race, and the old crock didn't do a thing but spread himself. The way he tore along over the ground amazed everybody who saw it. It seemed that the old horse had renewed his youth and was out for blood. He made the run of his life to get his rider on that ball. Like a meteor he flew across the green, and Liner was fairly beaten, causing Frank Merriwell's friends and admirers to rise up and shout with astonishment and delight.

The check was too sudden, however, and the old pony slid on his haunches. Then up rushed a ma.s.s of men and ponies, making for a moment a wild _melee_.

Kimball got a crack at the ball, but it glanced off the ribs of Harden's pony, causing the animal to wince and swerve.

That let in Merriwell, who had brought Coffin Head about, and he made a skillful stroke. As he did so, he felt something whistle past his head, and realized that he had narrowly escaped a blow that must have spoiled the effectiveness of his work.

Frank did not take his eyes off the ball; but, nevertheless, he saw it was Fenton who had attempted the foul stroke, being unable to reach the ball himself.

Diamond went down on the sphere with a rush, and carried it along toward the enemy's posts. With a clean lead at the proper moment, the Virginian, who had already showed himself a perfect horseman and perfect polo player, sent the white ball sailing through the timber, and Springbrook had made the first goal.

CHAPTER XXV-THE END OF THE GAME

Diamond was heartily congratulated, and his dark face flushed with pleasure over his success.

"But I didn't do it alone," he declared. "Merriwell deserves as much or more credit, for he sent it out of the bunch, and gave me my chance at it."

"You fellows must have played together a great deal," said Harden. "You work together perfectly."

Frank laughed.

"We never played together in a game before," he said. "I didn't know Diamond played polo till a short time ago."

"It's remarkable!" smiled St. Ives, who was delighted over the work of his team. "And old Coffin Head is right in the game."

"You bet!" cried Merry. "He is an old dandy! I wouldn't swap him for Liner now!"

"But he has not done such work this season. He is in his old-time trim, and I believe two-thirds of it comes from his rider."

Diamond touched Frank's arm, and drew him aside.

"Say, Frank," he whispered, "do you know you came near getting a crack over the head?"

"Sure," nodded our hero.

"Well, take my advice and look out for that Fenton. I saw him when he struck at you, and I know he would have struck just as quick if his mallet had been made of iron."

"I'll watch out for him, Jack."

"Do it, and I'll keep my eyes open myself."

Lock had strained his side twisting in the saddle for a stroke, and a fellow by the name of Hawley was subst.i.tuted. Kimball and Stone both rushed to the stable to change ponies, and Hawley called for another pony in the place of the one Lock had ridden. Of the Meadowfairs, Fenton was the only one who retained his mount.

Harden was the only Springbrook man who made a change. His pony had not acted satisfactorily, although it was considered a fairly good animal.

But it is an old saying that "the more a man knows about polo ponies the less he knows about them," and the paradox is an indisputable truth.

Nearly all polo ponies are Western bred, and have broncho blood in them.

A broncho is unreliable at best. For a thousand times he may serve you perfectly, and then, when you least expect such a thing, for no apparent reason, he may prove utterly unreliable.

Ponies for expert players must have lots of speed and good blood in them, but it is necessary that they should be tough and hard to injure.

As for the game of polo, there is no other sport in which the nervous force, cool decision and quick judgment of man are coupled to such an extent with the natural instincts of the horse.

Polo, properly played by man, with ponies thoroughly trained and keyed up to the highest tension, is a game which possesses just danger enough to make it attractive to men of nerve. It requires a cool head, quick eye, infinite perseverance and marvelous horsemanship.

The chief qualifications of an expert polo player are the ability to measure distance while riding at top speed, the knowledge when and where to race, and the judgment and skill to play a waiting game at times. The best player should be a past master of all the strategies and tactics of a cavalry horseman.

Besides this, it requires courage. A player must have the kind of nerve that would face unflinchingly a hand-to-hand struggle for life on the battlefield.

The friends of Frank and Jack hastened to congratulate them, with the exception of Browning and Hodge. The former was too lazy to exert himself so much, and the latter was in the "dumps," as the sulky look on his face plainly indicated.

"Gol darned if I ever saw sich a crummy lookin' hoss as that what could git araound so humpin' lively!" declared Ephraim Gallup.

"Yaw, dut bony peen lifely as a pedpugs," nodded Hans. "Vot vould you take for him uf you vant to bought him, Vrankie?"

"Merry, me b'y," put in the Irish lad, "it's a lulu ye are, an' Diamond is a p'ache; but it's thot spalpane Finton ye want to be lookin' afther roight sharrup, fer Oi saw him swat at yez."

"Don't worry, Barney," said Frank. "I'll keep watch of him."

Iva St. Ives chatted with Harry Harden, while from a distance, Stephen Fenton chewed his dark mustache and watched them sullenly, muttering to himself.

There was a sudden hurrying out from the stable.

"Time!"

Bang!-sounded the gong, and once more the game was on.

"Now play, boys!" cried Paul Stone. "We won't waste any time. Don't fool with it! Hit it hard!"

Fenton was on the ball, and he struck it as if an engine was back of him. The sphere flew over the gra.s.s, and Liner took his rider in hot pursuit.

Harden tried to get in at the ball, but was cleverly hustled by Kimball.

It seemed plain sailing. The Meadowfairs were going at it with a rush, and it looked like a goal at once.

Another hundred feet, and then, with a clever stroke, Fenton pa.s.sed the ball to the mallet of Hawley. But Hawley's stick was too short by three inches, and he missed on the swing.