Vag was not familiar with Hunt Clubs, and as his 1943 Plymouth came to a trembling stop on the fine pebble driveway, he bit his lip and looked around uncertainly.

"Young man?" she questioned, putting a fresh nib in her Victorian wooden pen.

"Where's the Harvard Polo Team, uh Club?"

May I enquire why you ask?" she replied, dipping the pen in some black ink.

"I'm the new groom. I got it through the Student Agency--its part of their new Stables Service."

"I see. Please go out as you entered and go behind this building. And you might take that machine out there with you."

Stumbling on a tin of saddle soap, Vag entered the Gentlemen's Changing Room. Tanned faces looked suspiciously at his colored sport shirt and chinos, tired veterans of many Cambridge laundry campaigns.

"This the polo team?"

"Yet. We're rather complete, though. Where do you play?"

"Oh, no. I don't want..."

"Wait a minute," called a voice with a Spanish accent, "How many goals are you?"

"Goals?"

"How many ponies have you? Can you van them?"

"But I just work here. I'm your new groom."

"Well then, you can start by checking my kit. But first put these boots on for me. I think I'll use those darker, rather tired ones there on the end."