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.