It was a crowd that knew polo from the inside outward, and when the ponies were brought at last and stood in line below the grand-stand, each in charge of his sais, there grew a great murmur of critical approval; for the points of a horse in Rajputana are as the lines of a yacht at Marblehead, and the marks of a dog in Yorkshire; the very urchins know them.  The Bombay side of India had been scoured pretty thoroughly for mounts for that event.  The Rajputs had on the whole the weight of money, and perhaps the showiest ponies, but the English team, nearly all darker in color as it happened, except for one pie-bald, looked trained up to the last notch and bore the air of knowing just what to expect, that is as unmistakable in horses as in men.

Tom Tripe was there with his dog.  Trotters had the self-imposed and wholly agreeable task of chasing all unattached dogs off the premises.  But Tom Tripe himself was keeping rather in the background, because technically, as a servant of Gungadhura, he was in a delicate position.  A voice that he could swear he almost recognized whispered to him in the crowd that the English were going to forbid the next maharajah to have any but employees of his own race.  And a laugh that he could pick out of a million greeted his change of countenance.  But though he turned very swiftly, and had had no brandy since morning to becloud his vision, he failed to see his tormentor.

Tess and Dick drove down in ample time, as they had imagined, and found hard work to squeeze the dog-cart in between the phalanxes of wheels already massed on the ground.  When they went to the grand-stand it was to find not a seat left in the rows reserved for ordinary folk; so Samson, who arrived late too, magnificent in brand-new riding-boots, invited them to sit next him in front.

The ground was in perfect condition—­a trifle hard, because of the season, but flat as a billiard table and as fast as even Rajputs could desire.  A committee of them had been going over it daily for a week past, recommending touches here, suggesting something there, neglecting not an inch, because the finer stick-work of the Rajput team would be lost on uneven ground; and the English had been sportsmen enough to accommodate them without a murmur.

When a little bell rang and the teams turned out for the first chukker in deathly-silence, it was evident at once what the Rajput strategy would be.  They had brought out their fastest ponies to begin with, determined to take the lead at the start and hold it.

One could hear the crowd breathe when the whistle blew; for in India polo is a game to watch, not an opportunity for small talk.  Instantly the ball went clipping toward the English goal, to be checked by Topham at full-back, who sent it out rattling to the right wing.  But the Rajput left-wing man, a young cousin of Utirupa, cut in like an arrow.  The ball crossed over to the right wing, where Utirupa took it, galloping down the line on a chestnut mare that had the speed of wind.  Topham, racing to intercept the ball, missed badly; a second later the Rajput center thundered past both men and scored the goal, amid a roar from the spectators, less than a minute from the start.