“And that reason,” he reflected, “has nothing to do with our work. If I’m any good at guessing, he’s bent on wangling an invitation to Rascomb’s lodge!”
The _News-Vue_ sound truck pulled into the private grounds of the Excelsior Polo Club at exactly ten minutes to three. Through the elm trees George Doyle caught sight of the field, and gave a chuckle of pleasure.
The seventh chukker was underway as the truck drew up at the sidelines. Flash and Doyle worked swiftly, knowing they had little time.
“How’s the score?” the technician demanded of a spectator.
“Six to four in favor of the Internationals.”
Flash carefully looked over the field as he focused his camera. Two riders were outstanding, Rajah Mitra for the Internationals, and Herbert Rascomb on the American team. Mitra, a handsome, dark man of thirty, handled his mount expertly. His clashes with Rascomb were frequent.
Deliberately, Flash trained the camera lens upon them. Doyle’s protest was immediate and explosive.
“Say, what’s the idea? Do you want to make Rascomb sore?”
“Since when are we working for him?” Flash countered. “We’re here to get good pictures. He happens to be one of the best players on the field.”
The argument might have waxed warmer, but just then the chukker ended with a spectacular goal made by Rascomb. He wheeled his horse, a beautiful black mare, and rode over to the sound wagon.
“Good afternoon, boys,” he said heartily. “Taking a few pictures?”
“_News-Vue_,” Doyle replied. “That last shot of yours was pretty, Mr. Rascomb.”
“Thank you, thank you.” The sportsman doffed his cork helmet mockingly, and his lips parted in a smile. “The fact is, Rajah Mitra is too fast for me today. A marvelous player, that man!”
There was an expansive, friendly quality to Rascomb which attracted Flash despite himself. For some reason he had felt distrustful of the man. Now that he had heard him speak, the feeling was slipping away.
“A little request, boys,” the sportsman said casually. “No close-ups of me, please.”
“You don’t like to be photographed?” Flash inquired, watching the man curiously.
Rascomb’s dark eyes appraised the cameraman. His glance took in the cheap suit, the muddy shoes, wrinkled tie.
“You’ll have to excuse Evans’ appearance.” Doyle spoke apologetically. “He fell into a river this morning.”