"I got one I'll let you have, free for nothing," said the mechanic. "Boy, that was a swell game you played!" "Could I have the suit now?" asked Meek. "I'm in a hurry to get away." Jones bounced to his feet. "But you can't leave. Why, they think you're dead. They're out looking for you. And you won the cup ... the cup as the most valuable team member." "I just can't stay," said Meek. He shuffled his feet uneasily. "Got places to go. Things to see. Stayed too long already." "But the cup...." "Tell Gus I won the cup for him. Tell him to put it on that mantelpiece. In the place he dusted off for it." Meek's blue eyes shone queerly behind his glasses. "Tell him maybe he'll think of me sometimes when he looks at it." The mechanic brought the suit. Meek bundled it under his arm, started for the lock. Then turned back. "Maybe you gentlemen...." "Yes," said Jones. "Maybe you can tell me how many goals I made. I lost count, you see." "You made nine," said Jones. Meek shook his head. "Must be getting old," he said. "When I was a kid I was a _ten goal_ man." Then he was gone, the lock swinging shut behind him. End of Project Gutenberg's Mr. Meek Plays Polo, by Clifford D. Simak