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 wiped their moustaches, and things looked more hopeful.

The Maltese Cat had put his nose into the front of Lutyens' shirt and was trying to say how sorry he was.

"He knows," said Lutyens, proudly. "The beggar knows. I ’ve played him without a bridle before now—for fun."

"It 's no fun now," said Powell. "But we have n't a decent substitute."

"No," said Lutyens. "It 's the last quarter, and we 've got to make our goal and win. I 'll trust The Cat."

"If you fall this time, you 'll suffer a little," said Macnamara.

"I 'll trust The Cat," said Lutyens.

"You hear that?" said The Maltese Cat, proudly, to the others. "It 's worth while playing polo for ten years to have that said of you. Now then, my sons, come along. We 'll kick up a little bit, just to show the Archangels this team have n't suffered."

And, sure enough, as they went on to the ground, The Maltese Cat, after satisfying himself that Lutyens was home in the saddle, kicked out three or four times, and Lutyens laughed. The reins were caught up anyhow in the tips of his strapped left hand, and he never pretended to rely on them. He knew The Cat would answer to the least pressure of the leg, and by way of showing off—for his shoulder hurt him very much—he bent the little fellow in a close figure-of-eight in and out between the goal-posts. There was a roar from the native officers and men, who dearly loved a piece of