At his box, Woodbury stopped only to huddle into his coat and overcoat and pull his hat down over his eyes. Then he hurried on toward an exit, but even this slight delay brought the reporters up with him. They had scented news as the eagle sights prey far below, and then swooped down on him. He continued his flight shaking off their harrying questions, but they kept up the running fight and at the door one of them reached his side with: "It's Mr. Woodbury of the Westfall Polo Club, son of Mr. John Woodbury of Anson Place?" Anthony Woodbury groaned with dismay and clutched the grinning reporter by the arm. "Come with me!" Prospects of a scoop of a sizable nature brightened the eyes of the reporter. He followed in all haste, and the other news-gatherers, in obedience to the exacting, unspoken laws of their craft, stood back and followed the flight with grumbling envy. On Twenty-Sixth Street, a little from the corner of Madison Avenue, stood a big touring car with the chauffeur waiting in the front seat. There were still some followers from the Garden. Woodbury jumped into the back seat, drew the reporter after him, and called: "Start ahead, Maclaren--drive anywhere, but get moving." "Now, sir," turning to the reporter as the engine commenced to hum, "what's your name?" "Bantry." "Bantry? Glad to know you." He shook hands. "You know me?" "Certainly. I cover sports all the way from polo to golf. Anthony Woodbury--Westfall Polo Club--then golf, tennis, trap shooting--" "Enough!" groaned the victim. "Now look here, Bantry, you have me dead to rights--got me with the goods, so to speak, haven't you?" "It was a great bit of work; ought to make a first-page story." And the other groaned again. "I know--son of millionaire rides unbroken horse in Wild West show--and all that sort of thing. But, good Lord, man, think what it will mean to me?" "Nothing to be ashamed of, is it? Your father'll be proud of you." Woodbury looked at him sharply. "How do you know that?" "Any man would be." "But the notoriety, man! It would kill me with a lot of people as thoroughly as if I'd put the muzzle of a gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger." "H-m!" muttered the reporter, "sort of social suicide, all right. But it's news, Mr. Woodbury, and the editor--" "Expects you to write as much as the rest of the papers print--and none of the other reporters know me." "One or two of them might have." "But my dear fellow--won't you take a chance?" Bantry made a wry face. "Madison Square Garden," went on Woodbury bitterly. "Ten thousand people looking on--gad, man, it's awful." "Why'd you do it, then?" "Couldn't help it, Bantry. By Jove, when that wicked devil of a horse came at my box and I caught a glimpse of the red demon in his eyes--why, man, I simply had to get down and try my luck. Ever play football?" "Yes, quite a while ago."