“Then I’ve heard about you,” replied Densmore with interest, though he had heard only what little Io had deemed it advisable that he should know.  “You helped my sister when she was hurt.  We owe you something for that.”

“Official duty.”

“That’s all right.  But it was more than that.  I recall your name now.”  Densmore’s bearing had become that of a man to his equal.  “I’ll tell you, let’s go up to the clubhouse and have a drink, shan’t we?  D’ you mind just waiting here while I give this nag a little run to supple him up?”

He was off, leaving Banneker with brain awhirl.  To steady himself against this sudden flood of memory and circumstance, Banneker strove to focus his attention upon the technique of the horse and his rider.  When they returned he said at once: 

“Are you going to play that pony?”

The horseman looked mildly surprised.  “After he’s learned a bit more.  Shapes up well, don’t you think?”

“Speed him up to me and give him a sharp twist to the right, will you?”

Accepting the suggestion without comment, Densmore cantered away and brought the roan down at speed.  To the rider, his mount seemed to make the sudden turn perfectly.  But Banneker stepped out and examined the off forefoot with a dubious face.

“Breaks a little there,” he stated seriously.

The horseman tried the turn again, throwing his weight over.  This time he did feel a slightly perceptible “give.”  “What’s the remedy?” he asked.

“Build up the outer flange of the shoe.  That may do it.  But I shouldn’t trust him without a thorough test.  A good pony’ll always overplay his safety a little in a close match.”

The implication of this expert view aroused Densmore’s curiosity.  “You’ve played,” he said.

“No:  I’ve never played.  I’ve knocked the ball about a little.”

“Where?”

“Out in Santa Barbara.  With the stable-boys.”

So simply was it said that Densmore returned, quite as simply:  “Were you a stable-boy?”

“No such luck, then.  Just a kid, out of a job.”

Densmore dismounted, handed reins and mallet to the visitor and said, “Try a shot or two.”

Slipping his coat and waistcoat, Banneker mounted and urged the pony after the ball which the other sent spinning out across the field.  He made a fairly creditable cut away to the left, following down and playing back moderately.  While his mallet work was, naturally, uncertain, he played with a full, easy swing and in good form.  But it was his horsemanship which specially commended itself to the critical eye of the connoisseur.

“Ridden range, haven’t you?” inquired the poloist when the other came in.

“Quite a bit of it, in my time.”

“Now, I’ll tell you,” said Densmore, employing his favorite formula.  “There’ll be practice later.  It’s an off day and we probably won’t have two full teams.  Let me rig you out, and you try it.”