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.”