Frank Merriwell's Champions: or, All in the Game

In the opening charge Frank did not get in quite as quick as the others. Mounted on Liner, Steve Fenton shot down on the ball, and with a skillful crack, sent it skimming toward the Springbrook goal, causing a shout to go up from the spectators.

“He’ll make a goal for Meadowfair, in less than two – Great Scott! how’d the boy do that?”

Frank, somewhat behind the others, had caught the ball as it skimmed like a bullet over the ground, even though it seemed that he must have swung his mallet almost at the same instant as Fenton. The first crack was answered by a second, and the basswood ball suddenly went skimming back toward the Meadowfair side, with Diamond racing after it to send it through.

But Liner showed his mettle. It did not seem that Fenton paid the least attention to the pony, but the creature twisted about in a moment, and carried its rider along at Diamond’s side.

It was a brief but most exciting race, and the spectators cheered and waved their handkerchiefs.

“Go it, Diamond, old boy!” cried Harry Rattleton.

“Go id, Shack, oldt poy!” shouted Hans, hopping about like a toad. “You vill pet on my head!”

“Git doawn an’ crawl, gol darn ye!” whooped Ephraim. “Naow hit her a knockaout blow, and – Great gosh!”

In a most skillful manner Fenton’s pony had forced Diamond’s mount over, and the dark-faced man swung across in time to get a crack at the ball. The skill with which he struck it told that he was the most dangerous player on the Meadowfair side.

“Look out there, Harden!” cried St. Ives.

Harry stopped the ball, but it caromed from his mallet and came near going out of bounds. In a twinkling there was another hot rush and a threatened crash. Immediately all the players were clumped about the ball.

“Where are you, number one?” cried Paul Stone. “Strike, Kimball – strike, man! What’s the matter with you?”

For some moments the ball “hung,” and the players “dribbled”; but they were cool, and Lock made a neat and quick turn, passing the ball to Fenton, who took it up and hit it to boundary.

Over the board went the ponies, and the sticks crooked as they tried to give the ball a fillip outside. But Diamond, “half-back” for Springbrook, saw his opportunity, made a rush and a hard backhander on the near side, and out shot the little white sphere on its way to glory.

Merriwell was on it, as if he had been waiting for that very play. His stick, which he had selected with great care, seemed to swing free for a moment from the strap about his wrist, then the malacca did its work.

“Hooray!” cried Ephraim Gallup. “It’s a goal sure! Hooray!”

“Yaw!” screamed Hans, “id peen a dandy!”

“Outside! outside!”

“Who says outside?” snapped Rattleton. “The referee? I know better! It’s a goal sure!”

“Outside, I tell you!” came the voice of the referee, and the game stopped.

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 mass of men and ponies, making for a moment a wild mêlée.

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 substituted. 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 grass, 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 passed the ball to the mallet of Hawley. But Hawley’s stick was too short by three inches, and he missed on the swing.

Harden was making a hard push for the ball, and Fenton, who was following it up, tried to crowd him. They came along side by side, with their knees jammed together as the ponies raced.

Then – how was it done? Liner seemed to stop suddenly, as if turned to stone, and Harden was torn from the saddle of his pony, which shot on without him. He fell heavily to the ground in the very track of the whole mass of onrushing ponies.

A scream of fear broke from Iva St. Ives, who was watching it all, for it seemed that Harden was doomed to be severely injured beneath the hoofs of the ponies – perhaps killed.

Frank was slightly in advance of the others, and, quick as thought, he leaned far over to one side, like a cowboy, and his hand fastened on the belt of the fallen player.

Harden was too heavy for Merriwell to swing back into the saddle, but he carried the young man along till the other players could swerve aside, and he did not drop him till he could stop Coffin Head.

In a moment Harden was on his feet, and, as he sprang up, the spectators broke into loud cheers.

“Thank you, Merriwell!” exclaimed the man Frank had thus cleverly saved by a cowboy trick. “I won’t forget that.”

Then he darted away after his pony, apparently uninjured.

“I know it was a foul trick that flung him from the saddle,” thought Frank. “I wonder why the referee doesn’t declare a foul? Is there some kind of a job in this?”

Then a shout came from his lips as he awoke to the fact that the game was still on, and Diamond had cleverly prevented Fenton from making a goal.

Coffin Head was away after the ball almost before the shout came from Frank’s lips. As if nothing of an unusual nature had happened, the game continued.

Hawley tried to cut Merriwell off from the ball, but old Coffin Head would not have it, and Frank got in a crack that made the spectators shout with delight. Then Kimball shot across ahead of Frank, and Kenneth St. Ives found a chance to carry the ball down the field, but broke his stick trying to strike a goal, and was forced to ride out of bounds for another mallet.

Luckily for Springbrook, Diamond was playing the game of his life. He came down and drove the ball from under the nose of Kimball’s pony, making another goal just as the first half closed.

Then came a rest of ten minutes, during which the ponies were rubbed down and the perspiring but enthusiastic players secured a respite.

Frank was quickly surrounded by an admiring throng. Pretty girls crowded about him, and sought an introduction, and men came up and felt of his arms, expressing their amazement that he should have been able to rescue Harden from beneath the feet of the charging ponies.

This was all very embarrassing for him, and he sought to get away. As soon as possible, he joined his friends, but they were ready with congratulations.

“It must have been tough, don’t you know,” yawned Browning; “but it was clever, Merriwell – confounded clever.”

“It was a dandy trick!” cried Harry Rattleton, bubbling with enthusiasm and admiration. “What’ll the fellows at Old Yale say when they hear of your cowboy trick, Merry?”

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t tell them about it!” exclaimed Frank. “What is there to make such a fuss over?”

“Gol darned if I don’t think that feller was throwed off his hoss by Fenton!” put in Ephraim. “I couldn’t see just haow the trick was done, but I bet four dozen aigs it was done somehow.”

On this point Frank was silent.

Soon the gong sounded again, and the play was on once more. The Meadowfair men seemed desperate, and they fought like tigers. Three times within as many minutes the ball was forced down so near the Springbrook goal posts that a clever strike would have made a goal, and three times, mounted on old Coffin Head, Frank Merriwell sent it back into the center of the field.

On the third trip, Kenneth St. Ives got in a clever stroke and passed it to Diamond, who had been playing a waiting game. Jack saw his chance, and he rushed it for the Meadowfair posts.

Fenton charged on Jack like a whirlwind, but made a miss stroke, and the Virginian rushed the white sphere down through the posts, making another goal for Springbrook.

Two minutes’ rest followed, and then the ball was put in again.

The face of Stephen Fenton was dark with anger, and he played as if possessed by a fiend. But all his work was vain, for Springbrook made three goals in the last half, and the game closed with a complete whitewash for Meadowfair.

CHAPTER XXVI – BEFORE THE HUNT

“I believe there will be a frost to-morrow morning,” declared Kenneth St. Ives, as the boys were gathered in the summerhouse that evening. “It has turned very cold within an hour, and there is not a breath of wind. If there is a frost look out for sport.”

“What sort of sport?” eagerly asked Harry Rattleton. “Something we can all take part in?”

“Sure.”

“Name it.”

“Fox hunt.”

“Jupiter! That will be great.”

“We’ve got as fine a pack of hounds as can be found in this part of the country, although it is not a large pack,” said Kenneth; “and we have the foxes. Every one of you fellows who can ride may take part in the hunt.”

“I’m pretty sure I shall have another chill to-morrow.” mumbled Browning. “I wouldn’t dare start out on a hunt.”

“Rats!” cried Rattleton. “The trouble with you is – ”

“Let Browning stay behind and take things easy,” said Hodge, quickly. “The rest of us can go. For real sport, give me a fox hunt.”

“Yaw!” nodded Hans; “dot peen der sbort vor you, hoch. I peen britty coot at dot.”

“Hev yeou got guns for ther hull on us?” asked Ephraim.

“Guns?” cried Kenneth, astonished.

“Yeh.”

“What do you want of guns?”

“Why, to shoot the gol darn fox with, of course!”

“But what do you want to shoot him for?”

“Hey!” gasped the astonished Vermonter. “Haow be yeou goin’ to hunt him if yeou don’t shoot him?”

“Why, we hunt foxes on horses, and let the dogs run them down.”

“An’ don’t do nary bit of shootin’?”

“No.”

“Wal, that’s what I call a mighty slim sort of a hunt,” declared Gallup, in disgust. “Yeou oughter see Win Page hunt foxes daown hum. Give that feller one dorg an’ a good gun, and he’ll go out ’most any mornin’ an’ gather in two or three of the critters afore breakfast. He keeps the door of his barn all nailed over with fox skins, an’ skunk skins, an’ muskrats, an’ he kin set araound the grocery store an’ tell huntin’ stories fer a week at a time ’thout stoppin’ to eat ur ketch his breath.”

“It is evident that Mr. Page hunts foxes in a different way and for a different purpose than we do,” smiled Kenneth.

Then Frank briefly explained to Ephraim the style of hunting foxes on horseback for sport, but Gallup did not seem to think there could be much sport in it that way.

“I’m sorry father had to fire Wade, the head hostler, to-night,” said St. Ives.

“Had to fire him?” questioned Frank. “What for?”

“He was drunk and insolent. But he knows more about taking charge of a stable than any man I ever saw, and he kept our hunters in fine condition. He has been drinking too much lately, however, and he was getting intolerable. By the way, Merriwell, you had better look out for him.”

“Why – how is that?”

“He seemed to think you were the cause of his dismissal, and he said he would ‘make it all right.’ He’s got a bad temper when he’s boozing.”

“Why, I didn’t say anything to your father about Wade.”

“I know it, but I told father about your trouble with him, and it is possible that’s why father was so ready to get rid of the fellow. Father insists that his guests shall be treated properly by everybody connected with the place.”

“If Mr. Wade knows what’s good for him, he’ll let Merry alone,” declared Rattleton.

“He may not be seen around here again,” said Kenneth. “Father told him to get away and stay away.”

The boys’ discussed the prospect of a hunt and grew very enthusiastic over it, with the exception of Browning. Hodge was aroused, for he fancied he saw his opportunity of making evident the fact that he was quite as good a horseman as Diamond, whom he could not help envying for the glory he had won at polo.

Bart had not been able to change his nature, and so he frequently was jealous of others, although he tried to suppress and conceal the fact, and, when he considered it in cold blood, he was always disgusted with himself.

Kenneth said the visitors at the house, those who had arrived that day and remained there, had been talking of a hunt, but it was not thought probable there would be an opportunity thus early in the season. The cold turn would be sure to arouse their expectations, however, and he would see that they were prepared for what might happen in the morning.

“I’ll guarantee a mount for every one who cares to go,” he said; “so don’t any one worry about getting left.”

The prospect of such sport seemed to revive Hodge, and he challenged Rattleton to a game of billiards, which challenge was promptly accepted.

St. Ives rang the bell for a colored boy, who lighted up the billiard-room, and soon Bart and Harry were at it, while the others lay around and looked on.

St. Ives motioned to Frank and Jack.

“You fellows come with me,” he said. “I’ve something to show you.”

They followed, and he took them out to the huge dog kennel, which was a house by itself, located under the trees by the stables. Their approach aroused the dogs, but the sound of St. Ives’ voice quieted them, and the boys entered. Kenneth lighted two lamps, while the dogs frolicked around him.

“Down, Bruiser – down!” he ordered. “Off Pirate! Away, Madge – get out!”

The dogs obeyed him reluctantly,

“There, fellows,” he cried, proudly, “what do you think of them? I say they are all right, and they are dying for a run. I reckon they will get it in the morning.”

Frank and Jack looked the dogs over critically. Diamond’s eyes gleamed and he called Pirate to his feet.

“Here is the old dandy for any sum!” cried the Virginian. “That dog will be in at the death if he can keep a foot under him.”

Kenneth nodded.

“Pirate is a great hunter,” he said; “but he doesn’t run away from Madge very often.”

For half an hour they looked the dogs over, and then left the kennel.

“I’ll have to go into the house, and see what the others think about it,” said St. Ives. “Won’t you come in, fellows?”

“No,” said Diamond; “I am too tired.”

“I’m tired myself,” confessed Frank. “I think we’ll roll into our beds very soon.”

The boys strolled down past the summerhouse, while Kenneth went into the mansion. Through a window Frank and Jack could see the billiard players at work, and they heard Rattleton shout with laughter at some fluke Hodge made.

“It strikes me this is the last round of sport before we get back to the grind,” said Jack.

“Yes,” said Frank, somewhat sadly; “we’ve had our summer’s whirl, and it’s over; but it was fun while it lasted.”

Arm in arm, they walked down through the garden. They did not take the gravel path, but kept on the grass. Their feet made no noise, and they were silent, as both were thinking of their varied adventures since starting westward on the bicycle tour.

All at once they heard voices, and stopped suddenly.

“Catch your chance, Bill. A hundred for the boy and two hundred for the man. You do not like either of them, so – ”

“Like ’em! Cuss ’em, I hate ’em! I’ll do it if I git a good chance.”

“That is settled, then. You’d better get away from here, for you don’t want to be seen. Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

Frank leaped toward the bushes beyond which the voices sounded. They were thick, and he broke through with difficulty. When he reached the other side, he could hear the sound of running feet in dull retreat, but both men were gone.

Frank started in pursuit, but the ones who were running away seemed to know the turns of the garden walks better than he did, for both got away.

Diamond found Merriwell near the summerhouse chewing his lip and standing in an attitude that expressed mingled rage and disgust.

“Didn’t catch either of them, did you?” asked Jack.

“No,” was the answer; “but I think I know them both. They were the discharged hostler and Steve Fenton, or I’m daffy.”

CHAPTER XXVII – THE HUNT

“Hark away!”

The sound of baying hounds and the hunter’s horn cut the crisp morning air.

“The dogs have struck a track!” gayly cried Frank, who was mounted on Firefoot, having chosen that horse, although warned that he was the most dangerous animal in the Springbrook stables. “Listen to that! Is it not music to stir the blood?”

The baying of the hounds grew more and more distinct, and surely it was sweet music to the ear of the enthusiastic hunter. Rising, falling, now loud and clear, now faint and low, the mellow notes came across the meadows.

“They’re coming this way!” cried Diamond, excitedly, as his mount pricked up its ears and pawed the ground, plainly longing to be off after the baying dogs. “Come, Frank!”

“Shimminy Ghristmas!” gurgled Hans Dunnerwust, who was astride an old steed. “You don’d pelief dese hoss vos bound to run avay mit myseluf, do I?”

“I don’t think ye need ter worry abaout that,” grinned Ephraim Gallup.

“I make you feel petter ven you said dot,” declared the Dutch boy. “I peen avraidt I might run avay mit dese hosses und throw heem off.”

“It’s a warm scent, fellows!” palpitated Bart Hodge, who was a-quiver with excitement. “Oh, this morning will be filled with glory!”

“I thought you fellows would enjoy it,” said Kenneth St. Ives, who was with Frank and his friends, the hunters having split into two parties. “I want you to enjoy all the time you spend at Springbrook.”

“There’s the horn again!” fluttered Diamond; “and there they come! It’s a signal to us. Look! look! look!”

Out from a bit of scattering timber far across the meadows broke the hounds, the foremost running nose to the ground, the others following close, but often baying with uplifted muzzles. As the dogs had just struck the track, the hunters were close after them, and the bright colors of their clothing showed through the trees almost before the dogs appeared, rising and falling with the movements of their galloping horses.

“Harden is in the lead!” cried Kenneth St. Ives, “and Fenton is a close second. Look – look, fellows! The third one is my sister! Doesn’t she ride beautifully! Oh, she is as good as the best of them! I’ll wager a sawbuck she leads both Fenton and Harden before the chase is over, and she is sure to be in at the death.”