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306 HONDA THE SAMURAI.
the line of balls on their right hand. They rode
the balls for-
slowly at first, picking up and hurling
ward toward the goal
;
when within throwing
distance
they attempted to fling
them over the wickets.
In a few minutes several balls had gone over, and
the upper end of the course was now a pied field,
looking something like an irregularly picked paper
of mint drops.
It was no longer a dress parade, but a pitched
battle and a fiercely contested struggle of excited
men and of clashing horse and gear and bamboo
spoons. There a red flaps his saddle with his heavy
metal stirrups, spurs being unknown, and his steed
flashes toward a white ball. He is just about to
scoop it up, when click goes a white spoon under
his, and the ball flies whirling back. There goes a
victor whose defiant white helmet gleams like a wild
goose careering past the moon. He has already flung
seven balls clear over the wickets, he is now dashing
for an eighth
! Who can stop him ? He is already
shouting his triumph, when, like an arrow, a young
red dashes before him. The red spoon missed the
mark, and the horse's shoulder, striking his white
rival's flank, sends steed and rider rolling over the
sand. Quick as lightning, white-hat leaps nimbly
off the saddle, and before his horse is on his hoofs
again scoops up the ball and whirls it over the
wicket. A tempest of clapping hands from the
ladies and shouts from the men greet the victor,
who, without pausing to acknowledge the applause,
is in saddle again, the white lacquer of his helmet,
as the sun strikes it, dazzling his admirers.