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the bankroll to be premiering a new frock at the
day’s match!
    Blending with, and even outclassing some of,
the polo spectators, Sylvie and Leslye surveyed the players as they
took the field for warm-ups.
    Leslye spoke confidentially near Sylvie’s
ear, “So, how are you really, after two weeks of the working-class
culture?”
    “I’ll make it,” Sylvie replied with chipper
tone and perky smile. “Coming here helps. Seeing you. Friends.”
    “And how’s the cowboy? Bad as you
expected?”
    “Worse. Les, you cannot believe it, but less
than two hours from here is another planet, where Visigoths rule
and I’m forced to sleep beneath the remains of their kills.” Sylvie
pointed at one of the players on the field. “There’s Dan. You know,
I wonder if he wouldn’t be in the market for a new horse.”
    Suddenly Sylvie’s eye was drawn to one of the
players taking the field for the opposing team. She inhaled sharply
and grabbed Leslye’s arm. “Great Caesar’s ghost,” Sylvie whispered,
“would you look at that!”
    “What?” Leslye craned her neck to follow
Sylvie’s gaze to the end of the field and the opposing team.
    “There! Number three for the other side. It’s
him, isn’t it?” Sylvie shook Leslye’s arm for emphasis.
    “I don’t think so,” said Leslye, carefully
removing Sylvie’s fingers from her arm. “It just looks like
him.”
    “No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t look like him at
all. I’ve never seen him look like that, but it is him. That lying
son of a gun! He never told me he played, and he certainly never
said anything about coming here!”
    “Well, I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised,”
said Leslye. “I have always suspected the man was capable of
anything. Any. Thing.”
    Sylvie glowered at the oblivious player
number three and muttered to herself. “The secret life of Walter
Mitty McGurk.”
    Down on the field, players criss-crossed in a
systematic drill for warming up the horses and the players’
mallet-swinging “shooting” arms. As both teams were moving about
the field, Dan Stern managed to ride up alongside Walt and Walt’s
pinto in a corner of the field where their interchange would be
unheard.
    “Say, Dogpatch,” said Dan, “as long as you’re
here, why not be a sport and help me win a friendly wager this
afternoon, eh? I’ll share the winnings.”
    “How ‘friendly’ is the bet?”
    “Substantial—but he can afford it. No one
will be hurt. Sort of a great joke on him, all right?”
    Walt smiled. “Sorry. No sense of humor. If
you’ve got a lot riding on this match—and if you need to win for a
change, as I expect you do—I reckon you best try to play a little
better’n usual today.”
    As quickly as they had come together, they
parted as if nothing had happened. Dan had to work hard to
camouflage his anxiety, however. He
did
need to win, and
McGurk on the other team meant no sure thing for Dan’s side.
    The afternoon progressed and the lead changed
hands several times. The match was tied going into the last
chukker.
    The ball was dropped. Dan and Walt battled
for possession. Dan took it. They raced for the goal.
    Walt leaned forward, said something to his
horse, and the animal surged forward with new life. Dan seemed set
for his match-winning shot when Walt came out of nowhere to snatch
the ball with an unbelievable backshot.
    Dan was stunned. Walt whirled 180 degrees and
raced to the opposite end of the field, where the ball had been
cornered by his teammates. They set up the shot. The timing was
perfect. Without breaking stride, Walt’s horse met the ball at
center field, where Walt’s mallet sent it zipping past the
goaltender’s ears into the net. The winning point!
    The crowd screamed and applauded. Spectators
surged onto the field.
    Walt’s eyes met Dan’s across a sea of
celebrating players and spectators. No love was lost between them.
Dan made his way to the edge of the crowded field, where he
dismounted and slunk away toward the