Once more the quirt whirled in the air and fell with a resounding crack, but the stallion merely switched his tail and started forward at a clumsy stumbling trot. The thunder of the host was too hoarse for applause; they saw a victory and a defeat but what they had wanted was blood, and a death. They had had a promise and a taste; now they hungered for the reality. Woodbury slipped from the saddle and gave the reins to Werther. Already a crowd was growing about them of the curious who had sprung over the barriers and swarmed across the arena to see the conqueror, for had he not vindicated unanswerably the strength of the East as compared with that of the West? Boys shouted shrilly; men shouldered each other to slap him on the back; but Werther merely held forth the handful of greenbacks. The conqueror braced himself against the saddle with a trembling hand and shook his head. "Not for me," he said, "I ought to pay you--ten times that much for the sport--compared to this polo is nothing." "Ah," muttered those who overheard, "polo! That explains it!" "Then take the horse," said Werther, "because no one else could ride him." "And now any one can ride him, so I don't want him," answered Woodbury. And Werther grinned. "You're right, boy. I'll give him to the iceman." The big grey man, William Drew, loomed over the heads of the little crowd, and they gave way before him as water divides under the prow of a ship; it was as if he cast a shadow which they feared before him. "Help me through this mob," said Woodbury to Werther, "and back to my box. Devil take it, my overcoat won't cover that leg." Then on him also fell, as it seemed, the approaching shadow of the grey man and he looked up with something of a start into the keen eyes of Drew. "Son," said the big man, "you look sort of familiar to me. I'm asking your pardon, but who was your mother?" The eyes of young Woodbury narrowed and the two stood considering each other gravely for a long moment. "I never saw her," he said at last, and then turned with a frown to work his way through the crowd and back to his box. The tall man hesitated a moment and then started in pursuit, but the mob intervened. He turned back to Werther. "Did you get his name?" he asked. "Fine bit of riding he showed, eh?" cried the little man, "and turned down my thousand as cool as you please. I tell you, Drew, there's some flint in the Easterners after all!" "Damn the Easterners. What's his name?" "Woodbury. Anthony Woodbury." "Woodbury?" "What's wrong with that name?" "Nothing. Only I'm a bit surprised." And he frowned with a puzzled, wistful expression, staring straight ahead like a man striving to solve a great riddle. CHAPTER III SOCIAL SUICIDE