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."

Banneker shook his head. "I'm here on business. I'm a reporter with a story to get."

"All right; it's up to a reporter to stick until he gets his news,"

agreed the other. "You dismiss your taxi, and stay out here and dine, and I'll run you back to town myself. And at nine o'clock I'll answer your question and answer it straight."

Banneker, gazing longingly at the bright turf of the field, accepted.

Polo is to The Retreat what golf is to the average country club. The news that Archie Densmore had a new player down for a try-out brought to the side-lines a number of the old-time followers of the game, including Poultney Masters, the autocrat of Wall Street and even more of The Retreat, whose stables he, in large measure, supported. In the third period, the stranger went in at Number Three on the pink team. He played rather poorly, but there was that in his style which encouraged the enthusiasts.

"He's material," grunted old Masters, blinking his pendulous eyelids, as Banneker, accepting the challenge of Jim Maitland, captain of the opposing team and roughest of players, for a ride-off, carried his own horse through by sheer adroitness and daring, and left the other rolling on the turf. "Anybody know who he is?"

"Heard Archie call him Banker, I think," answered one of the great man's hangers-on.

Later, Banneker having changed, sat in an angled window of the clubhouse, waiting for his host, who had returned from the stables. A group of members entering the room, and concealed from him by an L, approached the fireplace talking briskly.

"Dick says the feller's a reporter," declared one of them, a middle-aged man named Kirke. "Says he saw him tryin' to interview somebody on the Street, one day."

"Well, I don't believe it," announced an elderly member. "This chap of Densmore's looks like a gentleman and dresses like one. I don't believe he's a reporter. And he rides like a devil."

"_I_ say there's ridin' and ridin'," proclaimed Kirke. "Some fellers ride like jockeys; some fellers ride like cowboys; some fellers ride like gentlemen. I say this reporter feller don't ride like a gentleman."

"Oh, slush!" said another discourteously. "What is riding like a gentleman?"

Kirke reverted to the set argument of his type. "I'll betcha a hundred he don't!"

"Who's to settle such a bet?"

"Leave it to Maitland," said somebody.

"I'll leave it to Archie Densmore if you like," offered the bettor belligerently.

"Leave it to Mr. Masters," suggested Kirke.

"Why not leave it to the horse?"

The suggestion, coming in a level and unconcerned tone from the depths of the chair in which Banneker was seated, produced an electrical effect. Banneker spoke only because the elderly member had walked over to the window, and he saw that he must be discovered in another moment.

Out of the astonished silence came the elderly member's voice, gentle and firm.

"Are you the visitor we have been so frankly discussing?"

"I assume so."

"Isn't it rather unfortunate that you did not make your presence known sooner?"

"I hoped that I might have a chance to slip out unseen and save you embarrassment."

The other came forward at once with hand outstretched. "My name is Forster," he said. "You're Mr. Banker, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Banneker, shaking hands. For various reasons it did not seem worth while to correct the slight error.

"Look out! Here's the old man," said some one.

Poultney Masters plodded in, his broad paunch shaking with chuckles.

"'Leave it to the horse,'" he mumbled appreciatively. "'Leave it to the horse.' It's good. It's damned good. The right answer. Who but the horse should know whether a man rides like a gentleman! Where's young Banneker?"

Forster introduced the two. "You've got the makings of a polo-man in you," decreed the great man. "Where are you playing?"

"I've never really played. Just practiced."

"Then you ought to be with us. Where's Densmore? We'll put you up and have you in by the next meeting."

"A reporter in The Retreat!" protested Kirke who had proffered the bet.