"
"But if you've only knocked about the field with stable-boys--"
"That's the only play I've ever had. But when I was riding range in the
desert, I picked up an old stick and a ball of the owner's, and I've
chased that ball over more miles of sand and rubble than you'd care to
walk. Cactus plants make very fair goal posts, too; but the sand is
tricky going for the ball."
Densmore whistled. "That explains it. Maitland says you'll make the club
team in two years. Let us get together and fix you up some ponies,"
invited Densmore.
Banneker shook his head, but wistfully.
"Until you're making enough to carry your own."
"That might be ten years, in the newspaper business. Or never.
"Then get out of it. Let Old Man Masters find you something in the
Street. You could get away with it," persuaded Densmore. "And he'll do
anything for a polo-man."
"No, thank you. No paid-athlete job for mine. I'd rather stay a
reporter."
"Come into the club, anyway. You can afford that. And at least you can
take a mount on your day off."
"I'm thinking of another job where I'll have more time to myself than
one day a week," confessed Banneker, having in mind possible magazine
work. He thought of the pleasant remoteness of The Retreat.
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