“You look pleased, Mr. Griggs,” said Miss Westonhaugh, who had probably been watching me for a moment or two.  “I did not know cynics were ever pleased.”

“I remember who it was that promised to crown the victors of this match, Miss Westonhaugh, and I cherish some hopes of being one of them.  Would you mind very much?”

“Mind?  Oh dear no; you had better try.  But if you stand there with your coat on, you will not have much chance.  They are all mounted, and waiting for you.”

“Well, here goes,” I said to myself, as I got into the saddle again.  “I hope he may win, but he would find me out in a minute if I tried to play into his hands.”  We were only to play the best out of three goals, and the score was “one all.”  All eight of us had fresh mounts, and the experience of each other’s play we had got in the preceding games made it likely that the game would be a long one.  And so it turned out.

From the first things went badly.  John Westonhaugh’s fresh pony was very wild, and he had to take him a breather half over the ground before he could take his place for the charge.  When at last the first stroke was made, the ball went low along the ground, spinning and twisting to right and left.  Both Kildare and Isaacs missed it and wheeled across to return, when a prolonged scrimmage ensued less than thirty yards from their goal.  Every one played his best, and we wheeled and spun round in a way that reminded one of a cavalry skirmish.  Strokes and back-strokes followed quickly, till at last I got the ball as it came rolling out between my horse’s legs, and, hotly pursued, beyond the possibility of making a fair stroke, I moved away with it in front of me.

Then began one of those interminable circular games that all polo players know so well, round and round the battlefield, riding close together, sometimes one succeeding in driving the ball a little, only to be foiled by the next man’s ill-delivered back-stroke; racing, and pulling up short, and racing again, till horses and riders were in a perspiration and a state of madness not to be attained by any peaceful means.  At last, as we were riding near our own goal, some one, I could not see who, struck the ball out into the open.  Isaacs, who had just missed, and was ahead, rode for it like a madman, his club raised high for a back-stroke.  He was hotly pressed by the man who had roused my wrath in the first game by his “dribbling” policy.  He was a light weight and had kept his best horse for the last game, so that as Isaacs spun along at lightning speed the little man was very close to him, his club well back for a sweeping hit.  He rode well, but was evidently not so old a hand in the game as the rest of us.  They neared the ball rapidly and Isaacs swerved a little to the left in order to get it well under his right hand, thus throwing himself somewhat across the track of his pursuer.  As the Persian struck with all his force downwards and backwards, his adversary,