He took his stick in both
hands, and, standing up in his stirrups, swiped at the ball in the
air, Munipore fashion. There was one second of paralysed
astonishment, and then all four sides of the ground went up in a
yell of applause and delight as the ball flew true (you could see
the amazed Archangels ducking in their saddles to dodge the line of
flight, and looking at it with open mouths), and the regimental pipes
of the Skidars squealed from the railings as long as the pipers had
breath. Shikast heard the stroke; but he heard the head of the
stick fly off at the same time. Nine hundred and ninety-nine ponies
out of a thousand would have gone tearing on after the ball with a
useless player pulling at their heads; but Powell knew him, and he
knew Powell; and the instant he felt Powell's right leg shift a
trifle on the saddle-flap, he headed to the boundary, where a
native officer was frantically waving a new stick. Before the
shouts had ended, Powell was armed again.
Once before in his life The Maltese Cat had heard that very same
stroke played off his own back, and had profited by the confusion
it wrought. This time he acted on experience, and leaving Bamboo
to guard the goal in case of accidents, came through the others like
a flash, head and tail low - Lutyens standing up to ease him - swept
on and on before the other side knew what was the matter, and nearly
pitched on his head between the Archangels' goal-post as Lutyens
kicked the ball in after a straight scurry of a hundred and fifty
yards.
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