“Not to-day, thank you,” said Hughes, as the blow slid off his raised stick, and Kittiwynk laid her shoulder to the tall pony’s quarters, and shoved him aside just as Lutyens on Shiraz sent the ball where it had come from, and the tall pony went skating and slipping away to the left. Kittiwynk, seeing that Polaris had joined Corks in the chase for the ball up the ground, dropped into Polaris’ place, and then “time” was called. The Skidars’ ponies wasted no time in kicking or fuming. They knew that each minute’s rest meant so much gain, and trotted off to the rails and their _saises_, who began to scrape and blanket and rub them at once. “Whew!” said Corks, stiffening up to get all the tickle of the big vulcanite scraper. “If we were playing pony for pony, we would bend those Archangels double in half an hour. But they’ll bring up fresh ones and fresh ones and fresh ones after that—you see.” “Who cares?” said Polaris. “We’ve drawn first blood. Is my hock swelling?” “Looks puffy,” said Corks. “You must have had rather a wipe. Don’t let it stiffen. You ’ll be wanted again in half an hour.” “What’s the game like?” said The Maltese Cat. “Ground’s like your shoe, except where they put too much water on it,” said Kittiwynk. “Then it’s slippery. Don’t play in the centre. There’s a bog there. I don’t know how their next four are going to behave, but we kept the ball hanging, and made ’em lather for nothing. Who goes out? Two Arabs and a couple of country-breds! That’s bad. What a comfort it is to wash your mouth out!” Kitty was talking with a neck of a lather-covered soda-water bottle between her teeth, and trying to look over her withers at the same time. This gave her a very coquettish air. “What’s bad?” said Grey Dawn, giving to the girth and admiring his well-set shoulders. “You Arabs can’t gallop fast enough to keep yourselves warm—that’s what Kitty means,” said Polaris, limping to show that his hock needed attention. “Are you playing back, Grey Dawn?” “Looks like it,” said Grey Dawn, as Lutyens swung himself up. Powell mounted The Rabbit, a plain bay country-bred much like Corks, but with mulish ears. Macnamara took Faiz-Ullah, a handy, short-backed little red Arab with a long tail, and Hughes mounted Benami, an old and sullen brown beast, who stood over in front more than a polo-pony should. “Benami looks like business,” said Shiraz. “How’s your temper, Ben?” The old campaigner hobbled off without answering, and The Maltese Cat looked at the new Archangel ponies prancing about on the ground. They were four beautiful blacks, and they saddled big enough and strong enough to eat the Skidars’ team and gallop away with the meal inside them. “Blinkers again,” said The Maltese Cat. “Good enough!” “They’re chargers—cavalry chargers!” said Kittiwynk, indignantly. “_They’ll_ never see thirteen-three again.”