Bruce Browning grunted and looked disgusted. “Merry must be a fool to take such a pony!” he growled. “They’re making a guy of him.” “G’way dar, boy!” muttered Toots, shaking his head. “Don’t yeh beliebe yehself! Dey don’ mek no guy ob dat boy ver’ much.” “Say, Browning,” cried Rattleton, excitedly, “you ought to know better than to think anybody can fake a mool—I mean make a fool of Frank.” “Yaw!” nodded Hans; “I oughter known petter dan dot, hand’t you? Vot do I take you for, Prowning! Vere you peen all my life, ain’d id? You don’d fool Vrankie Merrivell haluf so much as I think you can, you pet my axidental bolicy.” 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.