h a wrench that nearly hoisted
Powell out of his saddle.

"Now's our last chance," said The Cat, wheeling like a cockchafer on a
pin. "We've got to ride it out. Come along."

Lutyens felt the little chap take a deep breath, and, as it were, crouch
under his rider. The ball was hopping towards the right-hand boundary,
an Archangel riding for it with both spurs and a whip; but neither spur
nor whip would make his pony stretch himself as he neared the crowd. The
Maltese Cat glided under his very nose, picking up his hind legs sharp,
for there was not a foot to spare between his quarters and the other
pony's bit. It was as neat an exhibition as fancy figure-skating.
Lutyens hit with all the strength he had left, but the stick slipped a
little in his hand, and the ball flew off to the left instead of keeping
close to the boundary. Who's Who was far across the ground, thinking
hard as he galloped. He repeated stride for stride The Cat's manoeuvres
with another Archangel pony, nipping the ball away from under his
bridle, and clearing his opponent by half a fraction of an inch, for
Who's Who was clumsy behind. Then he drove away towards the right as
The Maltese Cat came up from the left; and Bamboo held a middle
course exactly between them. The three were making a sort of
Government-broad-arrow-shaped attack; and there was only the Archangels'
back to guard the goal; but immediately behind them were three
Archangels racing all they knew, and mixed up with them was Powell
sending Shikast along on what he felt was their last hope. It takes a
very good man to stand up to the rush of seven crazy ponies in the last
quarters of a Cup game, when men are riding with their necks for sale,
and the ponies are delirious. The Archangels' back missed his stroke and
pulled aside just in time to let the rush go by. Bamboo and Who's Who
shortened stride to give The Cat room, and Lutyens got the goal with a
clean, smooth, smacking stroke that was heard all over the field. But
there was no stopping the ponies. They poured through the goalposts
in one mixed mob, winners and losers together, for the pace had been
terrific. The Maltese Cat knew by experience what would happen, and, to
save Lutyens, turned to the right with one last effort, that strained a
back-sinew beyond hope of repair. As he did so he heard the right-hand
goalpost crack as a pony cannoned into it--crack, splinter and fall like
a mast. It had been sawed three parts through in cas