THE MALTESE CAT
It was a glorious sight, and the come and go of the little, quick hooves, and the incessant salutations of ponies that had met before on other polo-grounds or race-courses were enough to drive a four-footed thing wild.
But the Skidars' team were careful not to know their neighbours, though half the ponies on the ground were anxious to scrape acquaintance with the little fellows that had come from the North, and, so far, had swept the board.
"Let 's see," said a soft gold-coloured Arab, who had been playing very badly the day before, to The Maltese Cat; "did n't we meet in Abdul Rahman's stable in Bombay, four seasons ago? I won the Paikpattan Cup next season, you may remember?"
"Not me," said The Maltese Cat, politely. "I was at Malta then, pulling a vegetable-cart. I don't race. I play the game."
"Oh!" said the Arab, cocking his tail and swaggering off.
"Keep yourselves to yourselves," said The Maltese Cat to his companions. "We don't want to rub noses with all those goose-rumped half-breeds of Upper India. When we 've won this Cup they 'll give their shoes to know us."
"We sha'n't win the Cup," said Shiraz. "How do you feel?"
"Stale as last night's feed when a muskrat has run over it," said Polaris, a rather heavy-shouldered grey; and the rest of the team agreed with him.
"The sooner you forget that the better," said The Maltese Cat, cheerfully. "They 've finished tiffin in
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