“Better not watch the game,” he said. “We aren’t playing, and we shall only take it out of ourselves if we grow anxious. Look at the ground and pretend it’s fly-time.” They did their best, but it was hard advice to follow. The hooves were drumming and the sticks were rattling all up and down the ground, and yells of applause from the English troops told that the Archangels were pressing the Skidars hard. The native soldiers behind the ponies groaned and grunted, and said things in undertones, and presently they heard a long-drawn shout and a clatter of hurrahs! “One to the Archangels,” said Shikast, without raising his head. “Time’s nearly up. Oh, my sire and dam!” “Faiz-Ullah,” said The Maltese Cat, “if you don’t play to the last nail in your shoes this time, I’ll kick you on the ground before all the other ponies.” “I’ll do my best when my time comes,” said the little Arab, sturdily. The _saises_ looked at each other gravely as they rubbed their ponies’ legs. This was the time when long purses began to tell, and everybody knew it. Kittiwynk and the others came back, the sweat dripping over their hooves and their tails telling sad stories. “They’re better than we are,” said Shiraz. “I knew how it would be.” “Shut your big head,” said The Maltese Cat; “we’ve one goal to the good yet.” “Yes; but it’s two Arabs and two country-breds to play now,” said Corks. “Faiz-Ullah, remember!” He spoke in a biting voice. As Lutyens mounted Grey Dawn he looked at his men, and they did not look pretty. They were covered with dust and sweat in streaks. Their yellow boots were almost black, their wrists were red and lumpy, and their eyes seemed two inches deep in their heads; but the expression in the eyes was satisfactory. “Did you take anything at tiffin?” said Lutyens; and the team shook their heads. They were too dry to talk. “All right. The Archangels did. They are worse pumped than we are.” “They’ve got the better ponies,” said Powell. “I sha’n’t be sorry when this business is over.”