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.