CHAPTER XIIITHE POLO KING.
Saturday morning the Yale forces trooped to New London. The number of persons who went that morning, or said they were going later in the day, was really surprising. That such a mob should be drawn to New London to see a polo-game between Merriwell’s team and an unknown team of New London was, on the surface, unaccountable; yet Merriwell’s friends accounted for it by the fact that Merriwell and the men who composed his five were wonderfully popular, and that a tremendous interest had been aroused by the sky-rockety character of the betting.
But there was something below the surface that they did not see; the crafty hand and brain of Dade Morgan, and the mysterious man who was standing behind him urging him on. Santenel wanted the mob bound for New London to swallow up every Yale man who was likely to interfere with his plans concerning Charles Conrad Merriwell. Hence Morgan sent all of his friends and adherents, and all the enemies of Merriwell he could muster, knowing that this would cause a counter rally of the friends of Merriwell and take them to New London, also.
But the elder Merriwell himself was not going. He could not go, he told Frank, because he had received a telegram from a broker who was handling Western mining stock for him, and who was coming on from New York that day for a business interview.
The importance of the occasion seemed to demand music, and Dashleigh’s mandolin club invaded the New London train, loaded down with cases containing mandolins, guitars, and various other musical instruments. The crowd was very jolly and very musical, and bellowed such classics as “Good-by, Lady!” and “Good-by, My Lover, Good-by!” until many of the passengers who were not interested in such things, and particularly some Boston drummers on their way to Providence, who were investigating the mysteries of a jack-pot at the other end of the car, wished that mandolins had never been invented, or that musically inclined students had all been born dumb.
Dashleigh and his fellow musicians were supremely satisfied with themselves, however, and with the world in general, proving it by bubbling over with exuberant spirits. Dashleigh and Starbright had taken the first train, in order that they might get ahead of the crowd and secure good hotel accommodations. When New London was reached, and, finding there a great crowd assembled, Starbright put his bulky weight in the advance, with Dashleigh and the mandolin club trailing after him, and plowed a wide furrow through the crowd and escaped to a hotel in time to get the desired rooms and accommodations.
“There’s only one thing that can save my mandolin,” said Bert, when he and Dick were ensconced in comfort and security. “You’ll have to lend me another tenner. And, then, it may not save it.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, I haven’t money enough to liquidate for this gorgeousness.”
Starbright frowned.
“Been betting some more?”
“Well, you see, I couldn’t help it. And I’ve about bet the mandolin.”
“How was that?”
“Well, you see, Rol Packard shook a fiver under my nose, and I told him I hadn’t any more money, but would put my mandolin against it.”
Starbright sighed.
“Dashleigh, you’ll bet the coat off your back next!”
“There are others! And I’ll be all right as soon as I get the money I’ve already won.”
Indeed, there were “others” of Merriwell’s friends who were as wild in their betting as Bert Dashleigh.
The game was to be called at half-past two o’clock. Before that hour the polo-rink was crowded with men and boys, Yale students and pretty girls, who were interestedly watching a preliminary match-game between two New London teams of amateurs.
Dashleigh’s mandolin club was there, in seats at one end of the big rectangular “surface,” thumping away in the intervals of play.
The blue colors of Yale were everywhere conspicuous, as if to refute the assertions of Merriwell’s enemies that Frank’s team was not an accredited Yale institution. More blue would not have been displayed if a regular Yale college five was about to meet a five from another great university. The crowd grew denser and denser, as the watches showed the approach of the hour.
By and by the amateurs concluded their playing, and the New London team, which was a New London team in name only, came upon the “surface” for a warming-up before meeting Merriwell’s men.
While they were engaged in this, Frank and his five entered the room, their entrance immediately attracting attention. They came in, clothed in their roller-polo costume, with roller-skates on their feet.
Then more than half the crowd seemed to rise up; and, led by Bill Higgins, who swung his big sombrero and yelled like an Indian at a horse-race, they gave Merriwell and his men a rousing cheer. Dade Morgan whitened with rage.
“Hear the fools!” he inwardly snarled. “When will they ever get done worshiping Merriwell?”
The difference between the two teams was marked. Two of the opposing team looked like New York toughs, which they were, and the captain was a truculent-looking fellow, with eyes set close together.
When the New London team gave way for Merriwell’s, and Frank led his men on the floor for practise, the difference between the teams was so noticeable that Higgins again started a cheer which seemed to rock the building.
“I thould like to get that fellowth wope awound hith neck and choke him!” Lew Veazie disgustedly lisped to his chums of the Chickering set, as he listened to the cowboy’s bellowing. “It maketh me thick!”
“You’ll be sicker before the game is over!” said Beckwith, the big guard of the Yale football-team, who chanced to overhear him. “It makes me ashamed to know that you fellows are Yale men.”
“But Merriwell’s isn’t a Yale team!” snarled Skelding.
“Oh, it isn’t? Well, the best men in Yale think so. Listen to that yelling, if you don’t believe it! Look at those blue ribbons, if you don’t believe it! Merriwell is the king of Yale, and you know it, you miserable puppies!”
“If he wathn’t tho big I’d thump him!” Veazie gasped, when Beckwith had pushed on. “Why, the audathious villain!”
Merriwell’s team finished its practise. Silence reigned; even Dashleigh’s mandolin club ceasing its efforts when the hour arrived for the match-game on which so much was staked.
The referee came upon the floor, or “surface,” with the ball, and the teams grouped in front of the goal-cages. This was the line-up of the teams:
The referee placed the rubber-covered polo-ball on the spot in the middle of the floor. The members of the teams, who had been standing in front of their respective goal-cages, straightened up and leaned strainingly forward, ready to dash for the ball when the whistle sounded.
The referee stepped to one side of the surface when he had placed the ball, and put his whistle to his lips. Crowder, who was captain and rush—he of the narrow eyes and truculent face—was in motion before the sharp blast cut the air, but the referee did not send him back, and the whistle blew almost immediately. Then Frank went down the floor like a shot, and from under Crowder’s outstretched stick uncovered the spot and sent the ball bang against the planking at the back of the New London cage.
Bill Higgins opened up again with the roar of a buffalo, and the Yale men yelled.
Weathers, the New London half-back, got the ball and sent it flying toward the middle of the surface, where Ready blocked its passage with his feet and shot it again toward the New London goal. Bascom was in front of it, however, and kicked it away with a savage snarl, as if he were kicking at an enemy’s head. He was big and fat, with an enormous face and an unwholesome form.
Then Weathers struck the ball; but it was stopped by Hodge, and there was a furious mix-up near the center of the floor, from out of the midst of which the ball was shot by Starbright.
Mehan now took a hand and skipped the ball toward the Yale end; and Gates, getting in ahead of Starbright and Merriwell, shot it for the Yale goal.
Big Bruce Browning was there, however, with legs and stick ready for duty, and he blocked the play, driving the ball to one side.
Gates, who was a fast skater, got behind it with his stick and again sent it toward Bruce. It missed the goal, however, going behind it; and a struggle for its possession ensued between Crowder and Starbright, Crowder roughly trying to shoulder Dick out of the way; but in the attempt he was hurled against the planking, and the ball, dragged by Starbright’s stick away from the wall and from behind the goal, was caromed by him to Ready, who ran with it down the floor and shot it toward the New London end of the surface.
Here another fight ensued for its possession, the ball being batted and banged about, stopped by clubs and feet and sticks, until it was flirted out of the mêlée by Bart Hodge and again flew toward the New London goal.
Bascom was in place. He kicked it out of the way, and, lunging for another kick, uncovered the ball, and Merriwell shot the ball into the cage.
The first goal of the play had been made.
The teams now changed goals; and, while this was being done and they were getting in readiness for the next play, Dashleigh’s mandolin club began to “discourse sweet music,” which was drowned, however by the yells of the Yale men, led by Bill Higgins.
The yelling and the music ceased as the referee advanced again toward the middle of the floor with the ball. The contesting teams crouched in readiness while he put the ball on the spot. Then, before walking aside, the referee made his announcement:
“First goal, Yale; made by Merriwell. Time, two minutes and twenty seconds.”
He put the whistle to his lips, having walked aside while concluding the announcement, and Crowder started. The referee waved him back; then sounded his whistle, and the rushers darted out.
Again Merriwell got the ball and sent it flying down the floor. It was stopped by Mehan, the New London center; but Ready took it away from him and sent it again toward the New London goal, where it was stopped by the fat goal-end, who knocked it back with his stick. Then Hodge succeeded in getting the ball and started down the floor with it, driving past Mehan and Weathers. But Gates, who had skated round in a half-circle, stopped the ball with his stick before it reached the goal-end.
Bang! Weathers drove it straight and hard to the Yale end of the floor and against the planking, Starbright and Merriwell drove it from the vicinity of the Yale goal, Merriwell running it down to Starbright and the latter passing it around Crowder by a handsome carom against the wall and on to Hodge, who again tried to drive a goal.
But in doing so he slipped and came down with a thump on the floor. One of his skates had broken. The referee’s whistle blew and time was given for Bart to put on other skates.
Dade Morgan, who had secured a good seat in one of the side galleries, which enabled him to look down on the surface and observe every movement of the players, found it difficult to keep the smile on his face. He fiercely wanted the New London men to win—not because of the bets which had been made, but because he fancied the loss of the game would humiliate Merriwell and Starbright.
He was watching Mehan and Bascom, who, with others, were walking about the floor near their goal with their skates skewed to the sides of their feet, in this interval of play. Bascom and Mehan were the men from New York who had been hired by him to knock out Dick Starbright, by breaking his arm, or otherwise seriously injuring him before the end of the game.
Dade was thinking, too, as he looked at them, of what he fancied was transpiring in New Haven at that time, and rejoicing in the probably successful result of the efforts of Dion Santenel to snare Charles Conrad Merriwell.
“I’m afraid that Merriwell’s men are the better players,” he was forced to confess to himself. “But only one goal has been made, and there are plenty of chances. Anyway, if one of those fellows knocks out Starbright satisfactorily I shall be satisfied, whichever way the game goes.”
Again the game was on, the skaters flying here and there after the elusive sphere, swooping down on it from all quarters, as it skipped back and forth under the constant strokes of the sticks.
It was clearly to be seen that Merriwell’s men were the more scientific players. They did not hammer at the ball constantly, as if trying to smash it into dust, as the New Londoners did, but made team plays, gliding the ball from man to man around opposition players, caroming it against the walls and skilfully shooting it for goal.
The playing of the New London men was of the slugger type, as befitted their appearance. Bascom, their goal-tend, was savage and fierce as a chained wolf, hopping about in front of the cage, kicking at the ball, striking at it, and frantically warding it off when it was shot at the cage. Now and then he lifted his club and glared at the Yale men as they swooped on him, as if he desired to hammer their heads. More than once Mehan caught a Yale player round the shoulders and pushed him about, yet the referee did not announce a foul.
Mehan tried this once too often, jamming with terrific force into Dick Starbright, who was skating in the opposite direction. The result was disastrous to the New London man, who was hurled from his feet by the force of the impact, being literally lifted by Starbright’s greater weight and strength. He fell with a crash, striking his head on the floor, and lay for a moment stunned.
The referee blew his whistle; and, as if to cover up the confusion, Dashleigh’s band began to play.
“I’ll git even with ye for that!” Mehan growled viciously, as he crawled to his feet.
Then it was found that in the fall he had broken his skate, and a wait was occasioned.
“Look out for that fellow, Dick!” Frank warned. “He has been acting ugly toward you ever since the game began. Once, when he struck at the ball in the air, as if his stick were a baseball bat, and missed it, I thought he really struck at you. I believe now he did!”
“Oh, I saw the rascal!” Dick smiled. “I’ve been watching him ever since. But I don’t fancy he will care to run into me again, as he did just then.”
The fierceness of the New London men seemed to increase when the play began again, and within two minutes they had caged the ball, catching Browning off his guard and shooting the sphere between his legs.
Then how the friends of Dade Morgan cheered, in spite of the fact that the goal had been won from Yale!
“They’re fools!” Morgan snarled to himself. “I warned them against making such a show of themselves; but lots of fellows haven’t any more tact than to exhibit themselves in that way.”
Yet he was so pleased that the smile came to his face without any effort on his part.
Dashleigh’s band was again twanging away, but its strains could not soothe the heart of Morgan, who, in that moment of temporary victory, felt that he hated Merriwell and Starbright more than he had ever hated them.
When the playing recommenced it was fast and furious, and within less than a minute Starbright made a goal. Then Crowder drove a goal for New London, the score was again tied, and the referee’s whistle blew, announcing the end of the first period of the match.
When the referee’s whistle blew again and the game recommenced, Merriwell reached the ball first and sent it flying for goal. Bascom stopped it with his padded shins, kicked it away, and a fight for its possession took place near the middle of the floor.
Then Starbright secured it and drove it again toward the New London goal; but Weathers, the half-back, blocked it with his feet, and it shot to one side of the hall, with four or five men diving after it. Ready was there, and drove it into the New London goal, but it bounded out; and another struggle for its possession ensued, right in front of the cage, yet far enough away to prevent the calling of a foul. Hodge now got the ball and shot it into the cage, and it stayed there.
There was a transference of goals, and the game was renewed. Again Merriwell drove the ball for the cage; but Bascom, the goal-tend, stopped it with his foot. Weathers skipped it back to the middle of the floor, where there was a struggle for it, and such hot work that the spectators were brought up standing with a yell.
The New London men secured the ball and fought their way toward the Yale end. But Browning was there, and, though they made a desperate effort to put the ball in the cage, he prevented it.
Starbright drew the ball out of the mix-up, but lost it; and, to keep it from being caged, Ready shot it behind the goal. It caromed against the wall, flying to Merriwell’s side, and before Crowder could get to him, Merriwell shot it for a goal.
It went across the room like a streak of light. Bascom jumped to prevent it from going into the cage, but missed it; and another goal was added to the score of Merriwell’s side.
Again goals were changed, but before another score was made by either team the referee’s whistle blew, announcing the end of the second period of the game. The work had been so hot and fierce that neither spectators nor players had realized the quick passage of time, and the sound of the whistle came as a surprise.
Bascom, the fat goal-tend of the New London team, who had worked with such savage energy, was dripping with perspiration, and all of the men were more or less blown.
Whizz—plunk! The game was on again, and Merriwell had again driven the ball into the New London cage. Morgan’s face looked black. He had forgotten to smile. He saw that Merriwell’s men were playing now, and that the New London sluggers, though they were fierce fighters, were really no match for the Yale five.
The goals were changed, and the battle raged anew. Crowder was furious. At the sound of the whistle he tried to take the ball off the spot ahead of Merriwell, a thing he had not yet been able to do. But Frank took the ball, as before, and shot it past him, bang against the netting of the cage. It bounded out, was caught up by Weathers’ stick, and danced to the middle of the floor. Then Mehan sent it along, and there was another tussle near the Yale goal.
In the struggle that ensued, Mehan struck savagely at Dick Starbright’s head. Dick saw the blow coming and dodged, and the stick, swinging over and banging against the floor, was broken short off.
The ball had been in the air at the time, and Mehan, profusely apologizing, declared that the blow had not been aimed at Dick, but at the ball; and, after another stick had been given to him, the game was renewed.
“See here!” Dick hissed, when he was skating by the fellow, “if that happens again, I’ll know it’s no accident, and I’ll thump you as soon as the game is over. See?”
Mehan whitened, but made no answer.
The New London men, appearing now to realize that if they were not to be defeated badly they must make a fierce fight, began another effort to cage the ball on the Yale side. But Merriwell’s men pushed the ball away from the neighborhood of their goal out into the center of the floor. It came back, however, and Bruce time and again stopped it, in a way to win admiration from the spectators.
“They can’t get it past him!” Bill Higgins bellowed, hopping up and down in his excitement and waving his big sombrero, while his great spurs tinkled and jingled.
Two more skates were broken, and stops were made. Then Bruce, trying to stop a ball, pitched forward headlong on the floor, and Crowder, who was striking at the ball, deflected his stick and struck Bruce heavily over the head.
“It was an accident,” was the verdict of the referee.
Bruce’s head was bandaged, and, though he felt so dizzy from the effect of the blow that he could hardly stand, he remained at his post.
Then Ready drove another goal, and Bill Higgins whooped.
“Them New London fellers’ll never git another!” he yelled.
But they did. The New London men rallied, and in less than two minutes made two goals, setting their sympathizers wild with excitement.
“I ought to have prevented that,” Bruce apologized. “If I do that again, Merry, take me off the team.”
But Frank knew that New London would not have made those goals if Bruce had been in his usual condition, and he kindly told the big fellow so. The pain seemed somehow to go out of Bruce’s head after that, so that, when the next time the ball came skipping toward him, he blocked it promptly with his padded shins, and sent it flying back to the other end of the room with his stick. Again the battle was forced out into the middle of the rink.
Two goals were made, one by Starbright and the other by Merriwell. The New London men, growing more and more furious, tried again and again to cage the ball; but Bruce Browning was seemingly himself again, and each time cleverly blocked it and kept the Yale cage empty.
“Beat ’em out of sight!” Higgins yelled from his seat in the balcony; and Merriwell seemed suddenly to resolve to do this, and show the spectators what real polo-playing looked like. He was angered, too, by the dastardly blow which had been given Bruce and by the attempt against Starbright.
There were not many minutes more of play, but in that time Merriwell proved his worthiness of the title of Polo King. Again and again the New London men came charging down the room with a clanking roar, for a struggle for the ball, but Merriwell’s men, seeming to be imbued with the resolution which had come to Frank, met them firmly, took the ball from them easily, and, shooting it from man to man in beautiful team play, caged it again and again. Ready caged a goal, being followed by Bart Hodge, and he by Dick Starbright. Each time, when these goals were made, it was Merriwell who sent the ball to the one who made the goal, sending it at just the right time and in just the right way to enable the player to do the work.
Then Merriwell himself took a hand at the work of goal-making, and caged the ball twice in less than two minutes of play.
The New London men found that they simply were not in it, though they tried to pull themselves together and prevent this furious goal-making on the part of the Yale team. Bascom hopped up and down and to and fro in front of the cage, like the proverbial chicken on the proverbial pan of live coals. He lunged, kicked, flounced, and writhed; but he could not prevent the goals, for they seemed to shoot from Merry’s stick past his lunging feet, over them, under them, and between them.
Everybody in the big barnlike building was standing up in mad excitement, as the game thus drew toward its close, and Bill Higgins was whooping as if he meant to take off the roof.