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.