comes," said the little Arab, sturdily.

The saises looked at each other gravely as they rubbed their ponies'
legs. This was the time when long purses began to tell, and everybody
knew it. Kittiwynk and the others came back, the sweat dripping over
their hooves and their tails telling sad stories.

"They're better than we are," said Shiraz. "I knew how it would be."

"Shut your big head," said The Maltese Cat; "we've one goal to the good
yet."

"Yes; but it's two Arabs and two country-breds to play now," said Corks.
"Faiz-Ullah, remember!" He spoke in a biting voice.

As Lutyens mounted Grey Dawn he looked at his men, and they did not look
pretty. They were covered with dust and sweat in streaks. Their yellow
boots were almost black, their wrists were red and lumpy, and their eyes
seemed two inches deep in their heads; but the expression in the eyes
was satisfactory.

"Did you take anything at tiffin?" said Lutyens; and the team shook
their heads. They were too dry to talk.

"All right. The Archangels did. They are worse pumped than we are."

"They've got the better ponies," said Powell. "I sha'n't be sorry when
this business is over."

That fifth quarter was a painful one in every way. Faiz-Ullah played
like a little red demon, and The Rabbit seemed to be everywhere at once,
and Benami rode straight at anything and everything that came in his
way; while the umpires on their ponies wheeled like gulls outside the
shifting game. But the Archangels had the better mounts,--they had kept
their racers till late in the game,--and never allowed the Skidars to
play football. They hit the ball up and down the width of the ground
till Benami and the rest were outpaced. Then they went forward, and time
and again Lutyens and Grey Dawn were just, and only just, able to send
the ball away with a long, spitting backhander. Grey Dawn forgot that
he was an Arab; and turned from grey to blue as he galloped. Indeed, he
forgot too well, for he did not keep his eyes on the ground as an Arab
should, but stuck out his nose and scuttled for the dear honour of the
game. They had watered the ground once or twice between the quarters,
and a careless waterman had emptied the last of his skinful all in one
place near the Skidars' goal. It was close to the end of the play, and
for the tenth time Grey Dawn was bolting after the ball, when his
near hind-foot slipped on the greasy mud, and he rolled over and
over, pitching Lutyens just clear o