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Every golfer who ever conceded himself a two-foot putt because he wasafraid he might miss it has sweated and suffered and blasphemed in thewake of a slow foursome. All the clubs that I have ever seen—and I'vetravelled a bit—are cursed with at least one of these CreepingPestilences which you observe mostly from the rear.

You're a golfer, of course, and you know the make-up of a slow foursomeas well as I do: Four nice old gentlemen, prominent in business circles,church members, who remember it even when they top a tee shot, pillarsof society, rich enough to be carried over the course in palanquins, buttoo proud to ride, too dignified to hurry, too meek to argue exceptamong themselves, and too infernally selfish to stand aside and let theyounger men go through. They take nine practice swings before hitting ashot, and then flub it disgracefully; they hold a prayer meeting onevery putting green and apost-mortem on every tee, and a rheumaticsnail could give them a flying start and beat them out in a fifty-yarddash. Know 'em? What golfer doesn't?

But nobody knows why it is that the four slowest players in every clubalways manage to hook up in a sort of permanent alliance. Nobody knowswhy they never stage their creeping contests on the off days when thecourse is clear. Nobody knows why they always pick the sunniestafternoons, when the locker room is full of young men dressing in ahurry. Nobody knows why they bolt their luncheons and scuttle out to thefirst tee, nor where that speed goes as soon as they drive and startdown the course. Nobody knows why they refuse to walk any faster than abogged mooley cow. Nobody knows why they never look behind them. Nobodyknows why they never hear any one yell "Fore!" Nobody knows why they areso dead set against letting any one through.

Everybody knows the fatal effect of standing too long over the ball, alldressed up with nowhere to go. Everybody knows of the tee shots that areslopped and sliced and hooked; of the indecision caused by the long waitbefore playing the second; of the change of clubs when the first choicewas the correct one; of the inevitable penalty exacted by loss of temperand mental poise. Everybody knows that a slow foursome gives theRecording Angel a busy afternoon, and leaves a sulphurous haze over anentire course. But the aged reprobates who are responsible for all thistrouble—do they care how much grief and rage and bitterness simmers intheir wake? You think they do? Think again. Golf and Business are theonly games they have ever had time to learn, and one set of rules doesfor both. The rest of the world may go hang! Golf is a serious matterwith these hoary offenders, and they manage to make it serious foreverybody behind them—the fast-walking, quick-swinging fellows who areout for a sweat and a good time and lose both because the slow foursomeblocks the way.

Yes, you recognise the thumb-nail sketch—it is the slow foursome whichinfests your course; the one which you find in front of you when you govisiting. You think that four men who are inconsiderate enough to ruinyour day's sport and ruffle your temper ought to be disciplined, calledup on the carpet, taken in hand by the Greens Committee. You think theyare the worst ever—but wait! You are about to hear of the golfingrenegades known as the Big Four, who used to sew us up twice a week asregularly as the days came round; you are about to hear of Elsberry J.Watlington, and Colonel Jim Peck, and Samuel Alexander Peebles, and W.Cotton Hamilton—world's champions in the Snail Stakes, undisputedholders of the Challenge Belt for Practice Swinging, and undefeatedcatch-as-catch-can loiterers on the Putting Green.

Six months ago we would have backed Watlington, Peck, Peebles andHamilton against the wide world, bet dollars against your dimes andallowed you to select your own stakeholders, timekeepers and judges.That's how much confidence we had in the Big Four. They were withoutdoubt and beyond argument the slowest and most exasperating quartette ofobstructionists that ever laid their middle-aged stomachs behind theline of a putt.

Do I hear a faint murmur of dissent? Going a little strong, am I? Allright, glad you mentioned it, because we may as well settle thisquestion of supremacy here and now.

To save time, I will admit that your foursome is slower than Congressand more irritating than the Senate. Permit me to ask you one question:Going back over the years, can you recall a single instance when yourslow foursome allowed you to play through?... A lost ball, was it?...Well, anyway, you got through them.... Thank you, and your answer putsyou against the ropes. I will now knock you clear out of the ring withone well-directed statement of fact. Tie on your bonnet good and tightand listen to this: The Big Four held up our course for seven long andpainful years, and during that period of time they never allowed any oneto pass them, lost ball or no lost ball.

Visitors used to play our course on Wednesdays and Saturdays—our bigdays—and then sit in the lounging room and try hard to remember thatthey were our guests. There were two questions which they never failedto ask:

When we answered them truthfully they shook their heads, looked out ofthe windows, and told us how much better their clubs were handled. Ourcourse was all right—they had to say that much in fairness. It was welltrapped and bunkered, and laid out with an eye to the average player;the fair greens were the best in the state; the putting greens were likevelvet; the holes were sporty enough to suit anybody; but——And thenthey looked out of the window again.

You see, the trouble was that the Big Four practically ran the club asthey liked. They had financed it in its early days, and as a reward hadbeen elected to almost everything in sight. We used to say that theyshook dice to see who should be president and so forth, and probablythey did. They might as well have settled it that way as any other, forthe annual election and open meeting was a joke.

It usually took place in the lounging room on a wet Saturday afternoon.Somebody would get up and begin to drone through a report of the year'sactivities. Then somebody else would make a motion and everybody wouldsay "Ay!" After that the result of the annual election of officers wouldbe announced. The voting members always handed in the printed slipswhich they found on the tables, and the ticket was never scratched—itwould be Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton all the way. The onlyreal question would be whether or not the incoming president of the clubwould buy a drink for all hands. If it was Peck's turn the motion waslost.

As a natural result of this sort of thing the Big Four never left thesaddle for an instant. Talk about perpetuation in office—they had itdown to a fine point. They were always on the Board of Directors; theysaw to it that control of the Greens Committee never slipped out oftheir hands; they had two of the three votes on the House Committee, andno outsider was even considered for treasurer. They were dictators witha large D, and nobody could do a thing about it.

If a mild kick was ever made or new blood suggested, the kicker was madeto feel like an ingrate. Who started the club anyway? Who dug up themoney? Who swung the deal that put the property in our hands? Why,Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton, to be sure! Could any one blamethem for wanting to keep an eye on the organisation? Cer-tain-ly not.The Big Four had us bluffed, bulldozed, buffaloed, licked to a whisper.

Peck, Peebles and Hamilton were the active heads of the MidlandManufacturing Company, and it was pretty well known that the bulk ofWatlington's fortune was invested in the same enterprise. Those who knewsaid they were just as ruthless in business as they were in golf—quitea strong statement.

They seemed to regard the Sundown Golf and Country Club as their privateproperty, and we were welcome to pay dues and amuse ourselves five daysa week, but on Wednesdays and Saturdays we were not to infringe on thesovereign rights of the Big Four.

They never entered any of the club tournaments, for that would havenecessitated breaking up their foursome. They always turned up in abody, on the tick of noon, and there was an immediate scramble to beatthem to Number One tee. Those who lost out stampeded over to Number Tenand played the second nine first. Nobody wanted to follow them; but ablind man, playing without a caddie, couldn't have helped but catch upwith them somewhere on the course.

If you wonder why the club held together, you have only to recall thestory of the cow-puncher whose friend beckoned him away from the farolayout to inform him that the game was crooked.

"Hell!" said the cow-puncher. "I know that; but—it's the only game intown, ain't it?"

III

When Wally Wallace came home from college he blossomed out as a regularmember of the club. He had been a junior member before, one of thetennis squad.

Wally is the son of old Hardpan Wallace, of the Trans-Pacificoutfit—you may have heard of him—and the sole heir to more millionsthan he will ever be able to spend; but we didn't hold this against theboy. He isn't the sort that money can spoil, with nothing about him toremind you of old Hardpan, unless it might be a little more chin thanhe really needs.

Wally's first act as a full-fledged member of the club was to qualifyfor the James Peck Annual Trophy—a pretty fair sort of cup, consideringthe donor.

He turned in a nice snappy eighty-one, which showed us that a collegeeducation had not been wasted on him, and also caused several of theClass-A men to sit up a bit and take notice.

He came booming through to the semi-finals with his head up and his tailover the dash-board. It was there that he ran into me. Now I am no JerryTravers, but there are times when I play to my handicap, which is ten,and I had been going fairly well. I had won four matches—one of them bydefault. Wally had also won four matches, but the best showing madeagainst him was five down and four to go. His handicap was six, so hewould have to start me two up; but I had seen enough of his game to knowthat I was up against the real thing, and would need a lot of luck togive the boy anything like a close battle. He was a strong, heady matchplayer, and if he had a weakness the men whom he had defeated hadn'tbeen able to spot it. Altogether it wasn't a very brilliant outlook forme; but, as a matter of fact, I suppose no ten-handicap man ever oughtto have a brilliant outlook. It isn't coming to him. If he has one it isbecause the handicapper has been careless.

Under our rules a competitor in a club tournament has a week in whichto play his man, and it so happened that we agreed on Wednesday for ourmeeting. Wally called for me in his new runabout, and we had lunchtogether—I shook him and stuck him for it, and he grinned and remarkedthat a man couldn't be lucky at everything. While we were dressing hechattered like a magpie, talking about everything in the world but golf,which was a sign that he wasn't worrying much. He expected easy picking,and under normal conditions he would have had it.

We left the first tee promptly at one-forty-fivep.m., our caddiescarrying the little red flags which demand the right of way overeverything. I might have suggested starting at Number Ten if I hadthought of it, but to tell the truth I was a wee mite nervous and waswondering whether I had my drive with me or not. You know how theconfounded thing comes and goes. So we started at Number One, and mytroubles began. Wally opened up on me with a four-four-three, making thethird hole in a stroke under par, and when we reached the fourth tee wewere all square and my handicap was gone.

It was on the fourth tee that we first began to notice signs ofcongestion ahead of us. One foursome had just driven off and beckoned usto come through, another was waiting to go, and the fair green on theway to the fifth looked like the advance of the Mexican standing army.

"Somebody has lost the transmission out of his wheel chair," said Wally."Well, we should worry—we've got the red flags and the right of way.Fore!" And he proceeded to smack a perfect screamer down the middle ofthe course—two hundred and fifty yards if it was an inch. I staggeredinto one and laid my ball some distance behind his, but on the directline to the pin. Then we had to wait a bit while another foursome puttedout.

"There oughtn't to be any congestion on a day like this," said Wally."Must be a bunch of old men ahead."

"It's the Big Four," said I. "Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton.They always take their time."

From where we were we could see the seventh and eighth fair greens.There wasn't a player in sight on either one.

"Good Lord!" said Wally. "They've got the whole United States wide openahead of 'em. They're not holding their place on the course."

I claim that my second shot wasn't half bad—for a ten-handicap man. Iused a brassy and reached the green about thirty feet from the pin, butthe demon Wally pulled a mid-iron out of his bag, waggled it once ortwice, and then made my brassy look sick. When we reached the top of thehill, there was his ball ten feet from the cup. I ran up, playing itsafe for a par four, but Wally studied the roll of the green for aboutten seconds—and dropped a very fat three. He was decent enough toapologise.

I couldn't dispute it—two threes on par fours might well be overanybody's head. One down and fourteen to go; it had all the earmarks ofa massacre.

We had quite an audience at the fifth tee—two foursomes were piled upthere, cursing. "What's the matter, gentlemen?" asked Wally. "Can't youget through?"

It was a perfectly natural question for a stranger to ask—and Wally waspractically a stranger, though most of the men knew who he was. Itbrought all sorts of answers.

"You think they will? I'll bet you a little two to one, no limit, thatthey're all colour-blind!"

"They'llask you to come through—won't they, Billy? They'll insist onit, what?"

Wally was puzzled. He didn't quite know what to make of it. "But a redflag," said he, "gives you the right of way."

"Look here," said he, "I'll bet you anything you like that they let usthrough. Why, they can't help themselves!"

"You bet that they'll let you through of their own accord?" asked BenAshley, who never has been known to pass up a plain cinch.

Before he got off the tee he stood to lose six dozen balls; but hisnerve was unshaken and he slammed out another tremendous drive. I slicedinto a ditch and away we went, leaving a great deal of promiscuouskidding behind us. It took me two shots to get out at all, and Wallypicked up another hole on me.

On the sixth tee we ran into another mass meeting of malcontents. OldMan Martin, our prize grouch, grumbled a bit when we called attention toour red flags.

"What's the use?" said he. "You're on your way, but you ain't goinganywhere. Might just as well sit down and take it easy. Watlington hasgot a lost ball, and the others have gone on to the green so's nobodycan get through. Won't do you a bit of good to drive, Wally. There's twofoursomes hung up over the hill now, and they'll be right there tillWatlington finds that ball. Sit down and be sociable."

"What'll you bet that we don't get through?" demanded Wally, who wasbeginning to show signs of irritation.

"Whatever you got the most of, sonny—provided you make the bet thisway: they got tolet you through. Of course you might drive into 'emor walk through 'em, but that ain't being done—much."

Old Martin cackled and turned his cigar round and round in the corner ofhis mouth—a wolf when it comes to a cinch bet.

"Yes—grandpa!" said Wally, and sent another perfect drive soaring upover the hill.

Number Six is a long hole, and the ordinary player never attempts tocarry the cross-bunker on his second. I followed with a middling-to-goodshot, and we bade the congregation farewell.

"It's ridiculous!" said Wally as we climbed the hill. "I never saw afoursome yet that wouldn't yield to a red flag, or one that wouldn't leta twosome through—if properly approached. And we have the right of wayover everything on the course. The Greens Committee——"

"Is composed," said I, "of Watlington, Peck and Peebles—three membersof the Big Four. They built the club, they run the club, and they havenever been known to let anybody through. I'm sorry, Wally, but I'mafraid you're up against it."

"So it was," and he grinned like the good game kid he is. "The GreensCommittee, eh? 'Hast thou appealed unto Cæsar? unto Cæsar shalt thougo.' I'm a firm believer in the right method of approach. They wouldn'thave the nerve——"

"They have nerve enough for anything," said I, and dropped the subject.I didn't want him to get the idea that I was trying to argue with himand upset his game. One foursome was lying down just over the hill; theother was piled up short of the bunker. Watlington had finally found hisball and played onto the green. The others, of course, had been standinground the pin and holding things up for him.

I took an iron on my second and played short, intending to pitch overthe bunker on my third. Wally used a spoon and got tremendous height anddistance. His ball carried the bunker, kicked to the right and stoppedbehind a sandtrap. It was a phenomenal shot, and with luck on the kickwould have gone straight to the pin.

I thought the Big Four would surely be off the green by the time I gotup to my ball, but no, Peck was preparing to hole a three-foot putt. Anyordinary dub would have walked up to that pill and tapped it in, butthat wasn't Peck's style. He got down on all fours and sighted along theline to the hole. Then he rose, took out his handkerchief, wiped hishands carefully, called for his putter and took an experimental stance,tramping about like a cat "making bread" on a woollen rug.

"Look at him!" grunted Wally. "You don't mind if I go ahead to my ball?It won't bother you?"

The Colonel's first stance did not suit him, so he had to go all throughthe tramping process again. When he was finally satisfied, he beganswinging his putter back and forth over the ball, like the pendulum of agrandfather's clock—ten swings, neither more nor less. Could any oneblame Wally for boiling inside?

After the three-footer dropped—he didn't miss it, for a wonder—theyall gathered round the hole and pulled out their cards. Knowing eachother as well as they did, nobody was trusted to keep the score.

They paid not the slightest attention to him, and it was fully half aminute before they ambled leisurely away in the direction of the seventhtee.

I played my pitch shot, with plenty of back-spin on it, and stopped tenor twelve feet short of the hole. Wally played an instant later, amashie shot intended to clear the trap, but he had been waiting too longand was burning up with impatience. He topped the ball, hit the far edgeof the sandtrap and bounced back into a bad lie. Of course I knew why hehad been in such a hurry—he wanted to catch the Big Four on the seventhtee. His niblick shot was too strong, but he laid his fifth dead to thehole, giving me two for a win. Just as a matter of record, let me statethat I canned a nice rainbow putt for a four. A four on Number Six israre.

"Nice work!" said Wally. "You're only one down now. Come on, let's getthrough these miserable old men!"

Watlington was just addressing his ball, the others had already driven.He fussed and he fooled and he waggled his old dreadnaught for fifteenor twenty seconds, and then shot straight into the bunker—a wretchedlytopped ball.

"Bless my heart!" said he. "Now why—why do I always miss my drive onthis hole?"

Peck started to tell him, being his partner, but Wally interrupted,politely but firmly.

"Gentlemen," said he, "if you have no objection we will go through. Weare playing a tournament match. Mr. Curtiss, your honour, I believe."

Well, sir, for all the notice they took of him he might have beenspeaking to four graven images. Not one of them so much as turned hishead. Colonel Peck had the floor.

"I'll tell you, Wat," said he, "I think it's your stance. You're playingthe ball too much off your right foot—coming down on it too much. Nowif you want it to rise more——" They were moving away now, but veryslowly.

This time they had to notice the boy. He was mad clear through, and hisvoice showed it. They all turned, took one good look at him, and thentoddled away, keeping well in the middle of the course. Peck was stillexplaining the theory of the perfect drive. Wally yelled again; thistime they did not even look at him. "Well!" said he. "Of all the damnedswine! I—I believe we should drive anyway!"

"You'll lose a lot of bets if you do." Perhaps I shouldn't have saidthat. Goodness knows I didn't want to see his game go to pieces behindthe Big Four—I didn't want to play behind them myself. I tried toexplain. The kid came over and patted me on the back.

"You're perfectly right," said he. "I forgot all about those fool bets,but I'd gladly lose all of 'em if I thought I could hit that long-nosedstiff in the back of the neck!" He meant the Colonel. "And so that's theGreens Committee, eh? Holy jumping Jemima! What a club!"

I couldn't think of much of anything to say, so we sat still and watchedWatlington dig his way out of the bunker, Peck offering advice aftereach failure. When Watlington disagreed with Peck's point of view hetook issue with him, and all hands joined in the argument. Wally wassimply sizzling with pent-up emotion, and after Watlington's fifth shothe began to lift the safety-valve a bit. The language which he used waswonderful, and a great tribute to higher education. Old Hardpan himselfcouldn't have beaten it, even in his mule-skinning days.

At last the foursome was out of range and I got off a pretty fair teeshot. Wally was still telling me what he thought of the Greens Committeewhen he swung at the ball, and never have I seen a wider hook. It wasstill hooking when it disappeared in the woods, out of bounds. His nextball took a slice and rolled into long grass.

"Serves me right for losing my temper," said he with a grin. "I can playthis game all right, old top, but when I'm riled it sort of unsettlesme. Something tells me that I'm going to be riled for the next half houror so. Don't mind what I say. It's all meant for those hogs ahead ofus."

I helped him find his ball, and even then we had to wait on Peebles andHamilton, who were churning along down the middle of the course in easyrange. I lighted a cigarette and thought about something else—my incometax, I think it was. I had found this a good system when sewed up behindthe Big Four. I don't know what poor Wally was thinking about—man'sinhumanity to man, I suppose—for when it came time to shoot he failedto get down to his ball and hammered it still deeper into the grass.

"If it wasn't for the bets," said he, "I'd pick up and we'd go over toNumber Eight. I'm afraid that on a strict interpretation of the terms ofagreement Martin could spear me for two hundred fish if we skipped ahole."

"He could," said I, "and what's more to the point, he would. They wereto let us through—on request."

"I've tried one method of approach," said he, "and now I'll try anotherone. I might tell 'em that I bet two hundred dollars on the suspicionthat they were gentlemen, but likely they'd want me to split thewinnings. They look like that sort."

Number Seven was a gift on a golden platter. I won it with a frightfuleight, getting into all sorts of grief along the way, but Wally wasentirely up in the air and blew the short putt which should have givenhim a half.

His chin was very much in evidence as he hiked to Number Eight tee, andhe lost no time getting into action. Colonel Peck was preparing to driveas Wally hove alongside. The Colonel is very fussy about his drive. Hehas been known to send a caddie to the clubhouse for whispering on thebench. Wally walked up behind him.

"Oh!" said Wally. "Meaning me, I presume. Do you know, it strikes methat for a golfer with absolutely no consideration for others, you'requite considerate—of yourself!"

Now I had always sized up the Colonel for a bluffer. He proved himselfone by turning a rich maroon colour and trying to swallow his Adam'sapple. Not a word came from him.

"Quiet," murmured old Peebles, who looks exactly like a sheep. "Absolutequiet, please."

"Another considerate golfer, eh?" he snapped. "Now, gentlemen, under therules governing tournament play I demand for my opponent and myself theright to go through. There are open holes ahead; you are not holdingyour place on the course——"

"Drive, Jim," interposed Watlington in that quiet way of his. "Don't payany attention to him. Drive."

"But how can I drive while he's hopping up and down behind me? He putsme all off my swing!"

"I'm glad my protest has some effect on you," said Wally. "Now Iunderstand that some of you are members of the Greens Committee of thisclub. As a member of the said club, I wish to make a formal request thatwe be allowed to pass."

"Do you mean to say that you refuse us our rights—that you won't let usthrough?"

"On the grounds that you're too fresh," said Colonel Peck. "On thegrounds that we don't want you to go through. Sit down and cool off."

"Wait a second," said Wally. "I want to get you all on record. I havemade a courteous request——"

"And it has been refused," said old Peebles, blinking at both of us."Gentlemen, you can't go through!"

"Pardon me," said Wally. He skipped out in front of the tee, lifted hiscap and made a low bow. "Members of the Greens Committee," said he, "andone other hog as yet unclassified, you are witnesses that I default mymatch to Mr. Curtiss. I do this rather than be forced to play behindfour such pitiable dubs as you are. Golf is a gentleman's game, whichdoubtless accounts for your playing it so poorly. They tell me that younever let any one through. God giving me strength, the day will comewhen you will not only allow people to pass you, but you willbeg themto do it. Make a note of that. Come along, Curtiss. We'll play the lastnine—for the fun of the thing."

"Oh, Curtiss!" It was Watlington speaking. "How many did you have himdown when he quit?"

The insult would have made a saint angry, but no saint on the calendarcould have summoned the vocabulary with which Wally replied. It was awonderful exhibition of blistering invective. Watlington's thick hidestood him in good stead. He did not turn a hair or bat an eye, butwaited for Wally to run out of breath. Then:

Now I did not care to win that match by default, and I did everything inmy power to arrange the matter otherwise. I offered to play theremaining holes later in the day, or skip the eighth and begin allsquare on the ninth tee.

"Nothing doing," said Wally. "You're a good sport, but there are othermen still in the tournament, and we're not allowed to concede anything.The default goes, but tell me one thing—why didn't you back me up onthat kick?"

I was afraid he had noticed that I had been pretty much in thebackground throughout, so when he asked me I told him the truth.

"Just a matter of bread and butter," said I. "My uncle's law firmhandles all the Midland's business. I'm only the junior member, but Ican't afford——"

"Yes, the Midland Manufacturing Company—Peck, Peebles and Hamilton.Watlington's money is invested in the concern too."

"Why," said Wally, "that's the entire gang, isn't it—Greens Committeeand all?"

"The Big Four," said I. "You can see how it is. They're ratherimportant—as clients. There has been no end of litigation over the sitefor that new plant of theirs down on Third Avenue, and we've handled allof it."

"So all the eggs are in one basket!" he exclaimed. "That simplifiesmatters. Now, if one of 'em had been a doctor and one of 'em a lawyerand one of 'em——"

So far as I could learn no official action was taken by the Big Fourbecause of conduct and language unbecoming a gentleman and a golfer.Before I left the clubhouse I had a word or two with Peebles. He wassitting at a table in the corner of the lounging room, nibbling at apiece of cheese and looking as meek as Moses.

"We—ah—considered the source," said he. "The boy is young and—rash,quite rash. His father was a mule-skinner—it's in the blood—can't helpit possibly. Yes, we considered the source. Absolutely!"

I didn't see very much of Wally after that, but I understood that heplayed the course in the mornings and gave the club a wide berth onWednesdays and Saturdays. His default didn't help me any. I washandsomely licked in the finals—four and three, I believe it was. Aboutthat time something happened which knocked golf completely out of mymind.

I was sitting in my office one morning when Atkinson, of the C. G. & N.,called me on the phone. The railroad offices are in the same building,on the floor above ours.

Now, our firm handles the legal end for the C. G. & N., and it struck methat Atkinson's voice had a nervous worried ring to it. I was wonderingwhat could be the matter, when he came breezing in all out of breath.

"You told me," said he, "that there wouldn't be any trouble about thatspur track along Third Avenue."

"For the Midland people, you mean? Oh, that's arranged for. All we haveto do is appear before the City Council and make the request for apermit. To-morrow morning it comes off. What are you so excited about?"

"This," said Atkinson. He pulled a big red handbill out of his pocketand unfolded it. "Possibly I'm no judge, Curtiss, but this seems to beenough to excite anybody."

I spread the thing out on my desk and took a look at it. Across the topwas one of those headlines that hit you right between the eyes:

Well, that was a fair start, you'll admit, but it went on from there. Idon't remember ever reading anything quite so vitriolic. It was a bitterattack on the proposed spur track along Third Avenue, which is thehabitat of the down-trodden workingman and the playground of hischildren. Judging solely by the handbill, any one would have thoughtthat the main idea of the C. G. & N. was to kill and maim as manytoddling infants as possible. The Council was made an accessory beforethe fact, and the thing wound up with an appeal to class prejudice and aringing call to arms.

"Men of Third Avenue, shall the City Council give to the bloatedbondholders of an impudent monopoly the right to torture and murder yourinnocent babes? Shall your street be turned into a speedway for a moderncar of Juggernaut? Let your answer be heard in the Council Chamberto-morrow morning—'No, a thousand times, no!'"

"The whole south end of town is plastered with bills like it," saidAtkinson glumly. "What have we done now, that they should be picking onus? When have we killed any children, I would like to know? What startedthis? Who started it? Why?"

"That isn't the big question," said I. "The big question is: Will theCity Council stand hitched in the face of this attack?"

The door opened and the answer to that question appeared—BarneyMacShane, officially of the rank and file of the City Council of ourfair city, in reality the guiding spirit of that body of petty pirates.Barney was moist and nervous, and he held one of the bills in his righthand. His first words were not reassuring.

"We have already been looking at it," said I with a laugh intended to belight and carefree. "What of it? You don't mean to tell me that you aregoing to let a mere scrap of paper bother you?"

"You can laugh," said he, "but there is more than paper behind this. Thewhole west end of town is up in arms overnight, and I don't know why.Nobody ever kicked up such a rumpus about a spur track before. That's myward, you know, and I just made my escape from a deputation of women andchildren. They treed me at the City Hall—before all the newspapermen—and they held their babies up in their arms and they dared me—yes,dared me—to let this thing go through. And the election coming on andall. It's hell, that's what it is!"

"But, Barney," I argued, "we are not asking for anything which the cityshould not be glad to grant. Think what it means to your ward to havethis fine big manufacturing plant in it! Think of the men who will havework——"

"I'm thinking of them," said Barney sorrowfully. "They're coming to theCouncil meeting to-morrow morning, and if this thing goes through I mayas well clean out my desk. Yes, they're coming, and so are their wivesand their children, and they'll bring transparencies and banners and Godknows what all——"

"But listen, Barney! This plant means prosperity to every one of yourpeople——"

"They're saying they'll make it an issue in the next campaign," mumbledMacShane. "They say that if that spur track goes down on Third Avenueit's me out of public life—and they mean it too. God knows what's gotinto them all at once—they're like a nest of hornets. And the womenvoting now too. That makes it bad—awful bad! You know as well as I dothat any agitation with children mixed up in it is the toughest thing inthe world to meet." He struck at the poster with a sudden spitefulgesture. "From beginning to end," he snarled, "it's just an appeal notto let the railroad kill the kids!"

"But that's nonsense—bunk!" said Atkinson. "Every precaution will betaken to prevent accidents. You've got to think of the capitalinvested."

"You go down on Third Avenue," said he, "and begin talking to thempeople about capital! Try it once. What the hell do they care aboutcapital? They was brought up to hate the sound of the word! You know andI know that capital ain't near as black as it's painted, but can youtell them that? Huh! And a railroad ain't ever got any friends in agang standing round on the street corners!"

"But," said I, "this isn't a question of friends—it's a straightproposition of right and wrong. The Midland people have gone ahead andput up this big plant. They were given to understand that there would beno opposition to the spur track going down. They've got to have it! Thesuccess of their business depends on it! Surely you don't mean to tellme that the Council will refuse this permit?"

"Well," said Barney slowly, "I've talked with the boys—Carter andGarvey and Dillon. They're all figuring on running again, and they'rescared to death of it. Garvey says we'd be damned fools to go against anagitation like this—so close to election, anyhow."

I argued the matter from every angle—the good of the city; the benefitto Barney's ward—but I couldn't budge him.

"They say that the voice of the people is the voice of God," said he,"but we know that most of the time it's only noise. Sometimes the noisekind of dies out, and then's the time to step in and cut the melon. Butany kind of noise so close to election? Huh! Safety first!"

Before the meeting adjourned it was augmented by the appearance of thepresident and vice-president of the Midland Manufacturing Company,Colonel Jim Peck and old Peebles, and never had I seen thosestiff-necked gentlemen so humanly agitated.

"This is terrible!" stormed the Colonel. "Terrible! This is unheard of!It is an outrage—a crime—a crying shame to the city! Think of ourinvestment! Other manufacturing plants got their spur tracks for theasking. There was no talk of killing children. Why—why have we beensingled out for attack—for—for blackmail?"

"You can cut out that kind of talk right now!" said Barney sternly."There ain't a nickel in granting this permit, and you know it as wellas I do. Nobody ain't trying to blackmail you! All the dough in townwon't swing the boys into line behind this proposition while this rumpusis going on. And since you're taking that slant at it, here's the lastword—sit tight and wait till after election!"

"But the pl-plant!" bleated Peebles, tearing a blotter to shreds withshaking fingers. "The plant! Think of the loss of time—and we—weexpected to open up next month!"

"Go ahead and open up," said Barney. "You can truck your stuff to thedepots, can't you? Yes, yes—I get you about the loss! Us boys in theCouncil—we got something to lose too. Now here it is, straight from theshoulder, and you can bet on it." Barney spoke slowly, wagging hisforefinger at each word. "If that application comes up to-morrowmorning, with the Council chamber jammed with folks from the south endof the town—good-a-by, John! Fare thee well! It ain't in human natureto commit political suicide when a second term is making eyes at you.Look at our end of it for a while. We got futures to think of, too, andGarvey—Garvey wants to run for mayor some day. You can't afford to havethat application turned down, can you? Of course not. Have a littlesense. Keep your shirts on. Get out and see who's behind this thing.Chances are somebody wants something. Find out what it is—rig up acompromise—get him to call off the dogs. Then talk to me again, andI'll promise you it'll go through as slick as a greased pig!"

"I believe there's something in that," said I. "We've never run intosuch a hornets' nest as this before. There must be a reason. Atkinson,you've got a lot of gumshoe men on your staff. Why don't you turn 'emloose to locate this opposition?"

"You're about two hours late with that suggestion," said the railroadrepresentative. "Our sleuths are on the job now. If they find outanything I'll communicate with you P. D. Q."

"Aw, you make me sick!" snapped Barney MacShane. "You think money can doeverything, don't you? Well, it can't! For one thing, it couldn't get meto shake hands with a stiff like you!"

I was called away from the dinner table on the following Fridayevening. Watlington was on the telephone.

"That you, Curtiss? Well, we think we've got in touch with the bug underthe chip. Can you arrange to meet us in Room 85 at the Hotel Brookmoreat nine to-night?... No, I can't tell you a thing about it. We're askedto be there—you're asked to be there—and that's as far as myinformation goes. Don't be late."

When I entered Room 85 four men were seated at a long table. They wereElsberry J. Watlington, Colonel Jim Peck, Samuel Alexander Peebles andW. Cotton Hamilton. They greeted me with a certain amount of nervousirritability. The Big Four had been through a cruel week and showed themarks of strain.

"It was stipulated, expressly stipulated," said old Peebles, "that onlythe five of us should be present. The whole thing is most mysterious.I—I don't like the looks of it."

Watlington didn't say anything. He had aged ten years, his heavysmooth-shaven face was set in stern lines and his mouth looked as if itmight have been made with a single slash of a razor.

Hamilton mumbled to himself and kept trying to light the end of histhumb instead of his cigar. Peck had his watch in his hand. Peeblesplayed a tattoo on his chin with his fingers.

"Good thing we didn't make that application at the Council meeting,"said Hamilton. "I never saw such a gang of thugs!"

"Male and female!" added Colonel Peck. "Well, time's up! Whoever he is,I hope he won't keep us waiting!"

"Ah!" said a cheerful voice. "You don't like to be held up on the tee,do you, Colonel?"

There in the doorway stood Wally Wallace, beaming upon the Big Four. Noteven on the stage have I ever seen anything to match the expressions onthe faces round that table. Old Peebles' mouth kept opening andshutting, like the mouth of a fresh caught carp. The others were frozen,petrified. Wally glanced at me as he advanced into the room, and therewas a faint trembling of his left eyelid.

"With—you?" It was all Watlington could do to tear the two words out ofhis throat. He croaked like a big bullfrog.

"With me," said Wally, bowing and taking his place at the head of thetable. "Unless," he added, "you would prefer to discuss the situationwith the rank and file of the Third Avenue Country Club."

The silence which followed that remark was impressive. I could hearsomebody's heart beating. It may have been my own. As usual Colonel Peckwas first to recover the power of speech, and again as usual he madepoor use of it.

"Shut up, Jim!" growled Watlington, whose eyes had never left Wally'sface. Hamilton carefully placed his cigar in the ashtray and tried toput a match into his mouth. Then he turned on me, sputtering.

"Be perfectly calm," said Wally. "Mr. Curtiss is not in on it, as you soelegantly express it. I am the only one who is in on it. Me, myself, W.W. Wallace, at your service. If you will favour me with your attention,I will explain——"

"Ah," said the youngster, grinning at Peck, "always a little nervous onthe tee, aren't you?"

A sudden light flickered in Wally's eyes. He turned to Elsberry J. withan expression that was almost friendly.

"Do you know," said he, "I'm beginning to think there may be humanqualities in you after all."

"Members of the Greens Committee and one other"—and here he looked atHamilton, whose face showed that he had not forgotten the unclassifiedhog—"we are here this evening to arrange an exchange of courtesies. Youthink you represent the Midland Manufacturing Company at this meeting.You do not. You represent the Sundown Golf and Country Club. I representthe Third Avenue Country Club—an organisation lately formed. You mayhave heard something of it, though not under that name."

"Gentlemen," he continued, "you may recall that I once made a courteousrequest of you for something which was entirely within my rights. Youmade an arbitrary ruling on that request. You refused to let me through.You told me I was too fresh, and advised me to sit down and cool off. Isee by your faces that you recall the occasion.

"You may also recall that I promised to devote myself to the task ofteaching you to be more considerate of others. Gentlemen, I am theopposition to your playing through on Third Avenue. I am the Man Behind.I am the Voice of the People. I am a singleton on the course, holdingyou up while I sink a putt. If you ask me why, I will give you your ownwords in your teeth: You can't go through because I don't want you to gothrough."

Here he stopped long enough to light a cigarette, and again his lefteyelid flickered, though he did not look at me. I think if he had Ishould have erupted.

"You see," said he, flipping the match into the air, "it has beennecessary to teach you a lesson—the lesson, gentlemen, of courtesy onthe course, consideration for others. I realised that this could neverbe done on a course where you have power to make the rules—or breakthem. So I selected another course. Members of the Greens Committee andone other, you do not make the rules on Third Avenue. You are perfectlywithin your rights in asking to go through; but I have blocked you. Ihave made you sit down on the bench and cool off. Gentlemen, how do youlike being held up when you want to play through? How does it feel?"

"Quit it, Jim!" snapped Watlington. "Your bark was always worse thanyour bite, and it's not much of a bark at that—'Sound and fury,signifying nothing.' Young man, I take it you are the chairman of theGreens Committee of this Third Avenue Country Club, empowered to act.May I ask what are our chances of getting through?"

"Iknow I'm going to like you—in time!" exclaimed Wally. "I feel itcoming on. Let's see, to-morrow is Saturday, isn't it?"

"Much," answered Wally. "Oh, much, I assure you! I expect to be at theSundown Club to-morrow." His chin shot out and his voice carried thesting of a lash. "I expect to see you gentlemen there, playing yourusual crawling foursome. I expect to see you allowing your fellowmembers to pass you on the course. You might even invite them to comethrough—you mightinsist on it, courteously, you understand, and withsuch grace as you may be able to muster. I want to see every member ofthat club play through you—every member!"

"Shut up!" ordered Watlington savagely. "And, young man, if we dothis—what then?"

"Ah, then!" said Wally. "Then the reward of merit. If you show me thatyou can learn to be considerate of others—if you show me that you canbe courteous on the course where you make the rules—I feel safe inpromising that you will be treated with consideration on this othercourse which has been mentioned. Yes, quite safe. In fact, gentlemen,you may even beasked to play through on Third Avenue!"

"Was paid for by the day," smiled the brazen rascal, with a gracefulinclination of his head. "People may be hired to do anything—even toannoy prominent citizens and frighten a City Council." Hamilton stirreduneasily, but Wally read his thought and froze him with a single keenglance. "Of course," said he, "you understand that what has been doneonce may be done again. Sentiment crystallises—when helped out with afew more red handbills—a few more speeches on the street corners——"

"The point is well taken!" interrupted Watlington hurriedly. "Damn welltaken! Young man, talk to me.I'm the head of this outfit. Pay noattention to Jim Peck. He's nothing but a bag of wind. Hamilton doesn'tcount. His nerves are no good. Peebles—he's an old goat.I'm the onewith power to act. Talk to me. Is there anything else you want?"

"Nothing," said Wally. "I think your streak of consideration is likelyto prove a lasting one. If not—well, I may have to spread this storyround town a bit——"

It was a noble and inspiring sight to see the Big Four, caps in hand,inviting the common people to play through. The entire club marchedthrough them—too full of amazement to demand explanations. Even PurdueMcCormick, trudging along with a putter in one hand and a mid-iron inthe other, without a bag, without a caddie, without a vestige of rightin the wide world, even Purdue was coerced into passing them. At dusk hewas found wandering aimlessly about on the seventeenth fairway, babblingto himself. We fear that he will never be the same again.

I have received word from Barney MacShane that the City Council will bepleased to grant a permit to lay a spur track on Third Avenue. The voiceof the people, he says, has died away to a faint murmuring. Some day Ithink I will tell Barney the truth. He does not play golf, but he has asense of humour.

LITTLE POISON IVY

The leopard cannot change his spots—possibly he wouldn't if he could;and, this being the case, the next best thing is to overlook as many ofhis freckles as possible.

Yesterday I sat on the porch at the Country Club and listened while theDingbats said kind and complimentary things about young Ambrose Phipps,alias Little Poison Ivy, alias The Pest, alias Rough and Reddy. Oneshort week ago the Dingbats would have voted him a nuisance and a menaceto society in general. Yesterday they praised him to the skies. It justgoes to show that good can be found in anybody—if that is what you arelooking for.

Understand me: there has been no change in Ambrose. He is still as freshas a mountain breeze. Unquestionably he will continue to treat hiselders with a shocking lack of respect and an entire absence ofconsideration. He was born with a deep depression where his bump ofreverence should have been located, and neither realises nor regrets hisdeficiency.

He will never change. It is the Dingbats who have changed. The wholeclub has changed, so far as Ambrose is concerned.

We are all trying to overlook the dark spots in his character and seegood in him, whether it is there or not.

Now as to the Dingbats: if you do not know them you have missedsomething rich and rare in the golfing line. There are four of them, allretired capitalists on the shady side of sixty. They freely admit thatthey are the worst golfers in the world, and in a pinch they could proveit. They play together six days a week—a riotous, garrulous, hilariousfoursome, ripping the course wide open from the first tee to the homegreen; and they get more real fun out of golf than any men I know. Theynever worry about being off their game, because they have never been onit; they know they can be no worse than they are and they have no hopeof ever being better; they expect to play badly, and it is seldom thatthey are disappointed. Whenever a Dingbat forgets to count his shots inthe bunkers, and comes home in the nineties, a public celebration takesplace on the clubhouse porch.

Yesterday it was Doc Pinkinson who brought in the ninety-eight—andsigned all the tags; and between libations they talked about AmbrosePhipps, who was practising brassy shots off the grass beside theeighteenth green.

Little Poison Ivy was unusually cocky, even for him, and every move wasa picture. At the end of his follow-through he would freeze, nicelybalanced on the tip of his right toe, elbows artistically elevated,clubhead up round his neck; and not a muscle would he move until theball stopped rolling. He might have been posing for a statue of thePerfect Golfer. When he walked it was with a conscious little swaggerand a flirting of the short tails of his belted sport coat. He washitting them clean, he was hitting them far, he had an audience—andwell he knew it. Ambrose was in his glory yesterday afternoon!

"By golly!" exclaimed Doc Pinkinson. "Ain't that a pretty sight? Ain'tit a treat to see that kid lambaste the ball?"

"Certainly is," agreed Old Treanor with a sigh. "Perfect form—that'swhat he's got."

"And confidence in himself," put in Old Myles. "That's the big secret.You can see it in every move he makes. Confidence is a wonderful thing!"

"And youth," said Daddy Bradshaw. "That's the most wonderful thing ofall. It's his youth that makes him so—so flip. Got a lot to say, for akid; but—somehow I always liked him for it."

"Me too!" chimed in Doc Pinkinson. "Doggone his skin! He used to make meawful mad, that boy.... Oh, well, I reckon I'm kind of cranky,anyway.... Yes; I always liked Ambrose."

Now that was all rot, and I knew it. What's more, the Dingbats knew ittoo. They hadn't always liked Ambrose. A week ago they would have markedhis swaggering gait, the tilt of his chin, the conscious manner in whichhe posed after every shot; and they would have said Ambrose was showingoff for the benefit of the female tea party at the other end of theporch—and they wouldn't have made any mistake, at that.

No; they hadn't always liked young Mr. Phipps. Nobody had liked him. Tobe perfectly frank about it, we had disliked him openly and cordially,and had been at no pains to keep him from finding it out. We had snubbedhim, insulted him and ignored him on every possible occasion. Worst ofall, we had made a singleton of him. We had forced him to play alone,because there wasn't a man in all the club who wanted him as a partneror as an opponent. There is no meaner treatment than this; nor is thereanything more pathetically lonely than a singleton on a crowded golfcourse. It is nothing more or less than a grown-up trip to Coventry. Ithought of all these things as I listened to the prattling of theDingbats.

"Huh!" grunted Doc Pinkinson. "He's dated up a week ahead—with Moremanand that bunch!A week ahead!"

"And he'll make 'em step!" chirped Daddy Bradshaw. "Here's to him,boys—a redhead and a fighter! Drink her down!"

Yes; they drank to Ambrose Phipps, and one short week ago they wouldn'thave tolerated him on the same side of the course with them. Our petleopard still has his spots, but we are now viewing him in the friendlyshade cast by a battered old silver cup: namely and to wit, the EdwardB. Wimpus Team Trophy, permanently at home on the mantelpiece in thelounging room.

Going back to the beginning, we never had a chance to blame Ambrose onthe Membership Committee; he slipped in on us via the junior-memberclause. Old Man Phipps does not play golf; but he is a charter member ofthe club and, according to the by-laws, the sons of members between theages of sixteen and twenty-one enjoy all the privileges of theinstitution.

Ambrose was nineteen when he returned rather hurriedly from college. Hedid this at the earnest and unanimous request of the Faculty and, it waswhispered, the police department of the university town. He hadn't donemuch of anything, but he had tried very hard to drive a touring car andseven chorus girls through a plate-glass window into a restaurant. Thepress agent of the show saw his chance to get some publicity for thebroilers, and after an interview with the Faculty Ambrose caught thefirst train for home.

Having nothing to do and plenty of time in which to do it, Ambrosedecided to become a golfer. Old Dunn'l MacQuarrie, our professional,sold him a large leather bag full of tools and gave him two lessons.Thus equipped and fortified, young Mr. Phipps essayed to brighten ourdrab lives by allowing us to play golf with him. Now this sort of thingmay be done in some clubs, but not in ours. We do not permit our sacredinstitutions to be "rushed" by the golfing novice. We are not snobbish,but we plead guilty to being the least bit set in our ways. They aregood ways, and they suit us. The club is an old one, as golf clubs go inthis country, and most of the playing members are men past forty yearsof age. Nearly all of the foursomes are permanent affairs, the same menplaying together week after week, season in and season out. The othermatches are made in advance, by telephone or word of mouth, and themember who turns up minus a game on Saturday afternoon is out of luck.

We do not leap at the stranger with open arms. We do not leap at him atall. We stand off and look him over. We put him on probation; and if heshapes up well, and walks lightly, and talks softly, and does not tryto dynamite his way into matches where he is not wanted, some day hewill be invited to fill up a foursome. Invited—make a note of that. Nowsee what Ambrose did.

With his customary lack of tact, he selected the very worst day in theweek to thrust himself upon our notice. It was a Saturday, and thelounging room was crowded with members, most of whom were shaking dicefor the luncheons. With a single exception, all the foursomes were madeup for the afternoon.

A short, sturdily built youngster came through the doorway from thelocker room and paused close to the table where I was sitting. His hairwas red—the sort of red that will not be ignored—and he wore it combedstraight back over the top of his head. His slightly irregular featureswere covered with large brown freckles, and on his upper lip was avolunteer crop of lightish fuzz, which might, in time, become amoustache. His green sport coat was new, his flannel trousers were new,his shoes were new—from neck to sole he fairly shrieked with newness.Considering that he was a stranger in a strange club, a certain amountof reticence would not have hurt the young man's entrance; but he burstthrough the swinging door with a skip and a swagger, and there was abroad grin on his homely countenance. It was quite evident that heexpected to find himself among friends.

A few of the members nearest the door glanced up, eyed the youthcuriously, and returned to their dice boxes. The others had not heardhim at all. Harson and Billford looked at me.

"Humph!" grunted Harson. "The living, breathing proof that marriage is afailure. What's he want?"

Now if there is anything that Billford loathes and detests, it isfamiliarity on short acquaintance. He hadn't even met this fresh youth;so he shrugged his shoulder in a very pointed manner and glared atAmbrose. The boy did not remove his hand.

"'S all right, old top," said he reassuringly. "It's clean—just washedit. Clean as your shirt." He bent down and looked at Billford's collar."No," said he; "cleaner.... Well, how about it? Got your game fixed up?"

"We are waiting for a fourth man." I answered because Billford didn'tseem able to say anything; he looked on the point of exploding.

"Oh, a fourth man, eh? Well, if he doesn't turn up you know me." AndAmbrose passed on to the next table.

"Quite so," said Harson; "but he'll never miss anything by being toobashful to ask for it. Look! He's asking everybody!"

Ambrose made the entire circuit of the room. We could not hear what hesaid, but we felt the chill he left in his wake. Men glanced up when headdressed them, stared for an instant, and went back to their dice. Someof them were polite in their refusals, some were curt, some were merelydisgusted. When he reached the table where Bishop, Gilmore, Moreman andElder were sitting, they laughed at him. They are our star golfers andmembers of the team. The Dingbats were too much astonished to showresentment; but when Ambrose left them he patted Doc Pinkinson on thehead, and the old gentleman sputtered for the best part of an hour.

It was a discouraging tour, and any one else would have hunted a quietcorner and crawled into it; but not Ambrose. He returned to our end ofthe room, and the pleased and expectant light in his eyes had given wayto a steely glare. He beckoned to one of the servants.

"My name is Phipps," said he. "I'm a junior member here, registered andall that, and I want to get a game this afternoon. So far, I haven't hadany luck."

"Perhaps all the games are made up," he suggested. "Saturday is a badday, unless your match is arranged beforehand."

"Zat so? Humph! Nice clubby spirit you have here. You make a fellow feelso much at home!"

Ambrose looked at him and smiled. It wasn't exactly a pleasant smile.Then he turned back to Harson.

"Some one must have left the outside door open," said he. "Seems to me Ifeel a strong draught."

"Put on another shirt!" Ambrose shot the retort without an instant'shesitation. "Now say, if your fourth man isn't here, what's the matterwith me?"

"Possibly there is nothing the matter with you," said Harsonpleasantly; "but if you are a beginner——"

"Aw, you don't need to be afraid of my game!" grinned Ambrose. "I'll beeasy picking."

"Well, what of it? How am I ever going to learn if I never play withanybody better than I am? Don't you take any interest in young blood, oris this a close corporation, run for the benefit of a lot of oldfossils, playing hooky from the boneyard?"

"Oh, run away, little boy, and sell your papers!" Billford couldn'tstand it any longer.

"I will if you lend me that shirt for a make-up!" snapped Ambrose. "Nowdon't get mad, Cutie. Remember, you picked on me first. A man with aneck as thick as yours ought not to let his angry passions rise. Firstthing you know, you'll bust something in that bonemeal mill of yours,and then you won't know anything." Ambrose put his hands on his hips andsurveyed the entire gathering. "A nice, cheerful, clubby bunch!" heexclaimed. "Gee! What a picnic a hermit crab could have in this place,meeting so many congenial souls!"

"That's mighty sweet of you," said Ambrose; "but, you see, I've made upmy mind to learn this fool game if it takes all summer. I'd hate toquit now, even to oblige people who have been so courteous to me....Well, good-by, you frozen stiffs! Maybe I can hire that sour oldScotchman to go round with me. He's not what you might call a cheerfulcompanion, but, at that, he's got something on you. He'shuman,anyway!"

Ambrose went outside and banged the door behind him. Billford made a fewbrief observations; but his remarks, though vivid and striking, were notquite original. Harson shook his head, and in the silence followingAmbrose's exit we heard Doc Pinkinson's voice:

III

Bad news travels fast when a few press agents get behind it, and not allthe personal publicity is handed out by a man's loving friends. Thosewho had met Ambrose warned those who had not, and whenever his fiery redhead appeared in the lounging room there was a startling drop in thetemperature.

For a few weeks he persisted in trying to secure matches with members ofthe club, but nobody would have anything to do with him—not even oldPurdue McCormick, who toddles about the course with a niblick in onehand and a mid-iron in the other,sans bag,sans caddie,sansprotection of the game laws. When such a renegade as Purdue refused togo turf-tearing with him Ambrose gave up in disgust and devoted himselfto the serious business of learning the royal and ancient game. Heinfested the course from dawn till dark, a solitary figure against thesky line; our golfing Ishmael, a wild ass loose upon the links, his handagainst every man and every man's hand against him.

He wore a chip on his shoulder for all of us; and it was during thisperiod that Anderson, our club champion and Number One on the team,christened Ambrose "Little Poison Ivy," because of the irritating effectof personal contact with him.

Ambrose couldn't have had a great deal of fun out of the situation; butMacQuarrie made money out of it. The redhead hired the professional toplay with him and criticise his shots. The dour old Scotch mercenary didnot like Ambrose any better than we did, but toward the end of the firstmonth he admitted to me that the boy had the makings of a star golfer,though not, he was careful to explain, "the pr-roper temperament for thegame."

"But it's just amazin', the way he picks up the shots," said Dunn'l."Ay, he'll have everything but the temperament."

As the summer drew to a close the annual team matches began, and weforgot Ambrose and all else in our anxiety over the fate of the EdwardB. Wimpus Trophy.

Every golf club, you must know, has its pet trophy. Ours is the worn oldsilver cup that represents the team championship of the Association. Apawnbroker wouldn't look at it twice; but to us, who are familiar withits history and the trips it has made to different clubhouses, theEdward B. Wimpus Trophy is priceless, and more to be desired thandiamonds or pearls.

When the late Mr. Wimpus donated the cup he stipulated that it should beheld in trust by the club winning the annual team championship, and thatit should become the property of the club winning it three times insuccession. For twenty years we had been fighting for permanentpossession of the trophy, and engraved on its shining surface was therecord of our bitter disappointment—not to mention the disappointmentof the Bellevue Golf Club. Twice we had been in a position to add thethird and final victory, and twice the Bellevue quintet had dashed ourhopes. Twice we had retaliated by preventing them from retiring theWimpus Trophy from competition; and now, with two winning years behindus and a third opportunity in sight, we talked and thought of nothingelse.

According to the rules governing team play in our Association, each clubis represented by five men, contesting from scratch and withouthandicaps of any sort. In the past, two teams have outclassed the field,and once more history repeated itself, for the Bellevue bunch fought usneck and neck through the entire period of competition. With one matchremaining to be played, they were tied with us for first place, and thatmatch brought the Bellevue team to our course last Friday afternoon.

I was on hand when the visitors filed into the locker room atnoon—MacNeath, Smathers, Crane, Lounsberry and Jordan—five seasonedand dependable golfers, veterans of many a hard match; fighters whonever know when they are beaten. They looked extremely fit, and not inthe least worried at the prospect of meeting our men on their owncourse.

They brought their own gallery, too, Bellevue members who talked evenmoney and flashed yellow-backed bills. The Dingbats formed a syndicateand covered all bets; but this was due to club pride rather than anyfeeling of confidence. We knew our boys were in for a tough battle, inwhich neither side would have a marked advantage.

Four of our team players were on hand to welcome the enemy—Moreman,Bishop, Elder and Gilmore—and they offered their opponents suchhospitality as is customary on like occasions.

"Thanks," said MacNeath with a grin; "but just now we're drinking water.After the match you can fill the cup with anything you like, and we'llallow you one drink out of it before we take it home with us. Once weget it over there it'll never come back. It's not in the cards for youto win three times running.... Where's Anderson?"

"He's on the way out in his car," added Moreman. "I rang up his housefive minutes ago. He'd just left."

"Oh, very well," said MacNeath, who is Number One man for Bellevue, aswell as captain of the team. "Suppose we have lunch now, Bishop; andwhile we're eating you can give me the list of your players and I'llmatch them up."

In team play it is customary for the home captain to submit the names ofhis players, ranked from one to five, in the order of their ability. Thevisiting captain then has the privilege of making the individualmatches; and this is supposed to offset whatever advantage the home teamhas by reason of playing on its own course.

Bishop, our captain, handed over a list reading as follows: 1—Anderson;2—Moreman; 3—Bishop; 4—Elder; 5—Gilmore. MacNeath bracketed his ownname with Anderson's, and paired Crane with Moreman, Lounsberry withBishop, Smathers with Elder, and Jordan with Gilmore.

After luncheon the men changed to their golfing togs; but still therewas no sign of Anderson. Another telephone call confirmed the firstmessage; his wife reported that he had left his home nearly an hourbefore, bound for the club.

"Queer!" said MacNeath. "Engine trouble or a puncture—possibly both.It's not like the Swede to be late. Might as well get started, eh?Anderson and I will go last, anyhow."

A big gallery watched the first pair drive off, Gilmore getting a betterball than Jordan, and cheering those who believe in omens. Then atfive-minute intervals, came Lounsberry and Bishop, Smathers and Elder,and Crane and Moreman. Each match attracted a small individual gallery,but most of the spectators waited to follow the Number One men.MacNeath, refusing to allow himself to be made nervous by the delay,went into the clubhouse; and many and wild were the speculations as tothe cause of Anderson's tardiness. The wildest one of them fell short ofthe bitter truth, which came to us at the end of a telephone wirelocated in the professional's shop. It had been relayed on from theswitchboard in the club office:

"Anderson blew a front tire at the city limits. Car turned over with himand broke his leg."

A bombshell exploding under our noses could not have created moreconsternation. There we were, with four of the matches under way, ourbest man crippled, and up against the proposition of providing anopponent for MacNeath, admittedly the most dangerous player on theBellevue team. Harson, as a member of the Greens Committee and anofficer of the club, assumed charge of the situation as soon as he heardthe news.

"No good sending word to poor old Bishop," said he. "He's the teamcaptain, of course; but he can't do anything about it. Besides, he'salready playing his match, and this would upset him terribly. Is thereany one here who can give MacNeath a run for his money?"

"He'd eat me alive!" groaned Harson. "We might as well forfeit onematch, and put it up to the boys to win three out of four. Oh, if weonly had one more good man!"

"Ye have," said MacQuarrie, who had been listening. "Ye've overlookedyoung Mister Phipps."

"Ay," said Dunn'l; "that kid! Call it nonsense if ye like, sir, but hewas under eighty twice yesterday. This mor-rnin' he shot aseventy-seven, with two missed putts the length o' your ar-rm. He's ontop of his game now, an' goin' strong. If he'll shoot back to hismor-rnin' round he'll give Mister MacNeath a battle; but the lad hasnever been in a competition, so ye'll have to chance his ner-rves."

"Of course ye wouldn't," said MacQuarrie. "Ye've never played withhim—never even seen him play."

"Ay," said Dunn'l; "an', grantin' ye that, he's still the best ye have.He's in the clubhouse now, dressed an' ready to start, once the crowd isout of the way."

"You go in and put it up to him," said he at last. "I can't talk to himwithout losing my temper."

I found our little red hope banging the balls about on the billiardtable, carefree as a scarlet tanager.

"I'm under age," said Ambrose, calmly squinting along his cue. "Don'tbother me. This is a tough shot."

"My club, eh?" remarked the redhead with nasty emphasis. "Any time thisclub calls me I'm stone-deaf."

"Listen to me a minute, Phipps. This is the day of the big team matchand we're up against it hard. Anderson turned his car over on the wayout and broke his leg. We want you to take his place."

"Anderson," repeated Ambrose. "Ain't that the squarehead who calls meLittle Poison Ivy? Only his leg, eh? Tough luck!"

"You bet it is!" I exclaimed, ignoring his meaning. "Tough luck for allof us, because if we can't dig up a man to take Anderson's place we'llhave to forfeit that particular match to MacNeath. We'd set our heartson winning this time, because it would give us the permanent possessionof the team trophy that we've been shooting at for twenty years——"

"Let your voice fall right there!" commanded Ambrose. "Trophies arenothing in my young life. This club is nothing in my life. Everybodyhere has treated me worse than a yellow dog. Go ahead and take yourmedicine; and I hope they lick you and make you like it!"

I saw it was time to try another tack. Ambrose had used one word thathad put an idea into my head.

"All right," said I. "Have it your own way. Perhaps it was a mistake tomention MacNeath's name."

"Well," said I, "you must know Mac by reputation. He's one of the bestgolfers in the state and a tough proposition to beat. He's their NumberOne man—their star player. He shoots pretty close to par all the time."

"Oh, everybody. Yes; it was a mistake to mention his name. I'm frankenough to say that I wouldn't tackle him without a handicap. MacNeath ishard game."

"Look here!" snapped the redhead. "You're off on the wrong footentirely. You're barking up the wrong tree. It's not because I'm afraidof this MacNeath, or anybody else. I licked that sour old Scotchman thismorning, and I guess you'll agree he's not soft picking. It's just thatI don't feel that this club ought to ask a favour of me."

"A favour! Why, man alive, it's a compliment to stick you in at NumberOne—the biggest compliment we can pay you!"

"If you are," said I, "you're the first redhead that ever got his colourscheme mixed."

"Listen!" said he confidentially. "You've used me pretty well—to myface, anyhow—and I'll tell yon this much: I don't care the snap of myfingers for your ratty old cup. I care even less for the members of thisclub—present company excepted, you understand; but I can't stand it tohave anybody think I'm notgame. Ever since I was a runt of a kid I'vehad to fight, and they can say anything about me except that I'm aquitter.... Why, I've stuck round here for nearly five months justbecause I wouldn't let a lot of old fossils drive me out and make mequit—five months without a friend in the place, and only MacQuarrie totalk to.

"If I'd been yellow it would have shown that first Saturday wheneverybody turned me down so cold. I wanted to walk out and never comeback. I wanted to; but I stuck. Honest, if I'm anything at all I'mgame—game enough to stand the gaff and take the worst of it; and I'llprove it to you by playing this bird, no matter how good he is. I'llfight him every jump of the way, and if he licks me he'll have to stepout some to do it. What's a licking, anyway? I've had a thousand of 'em!Plenty of people can lick me; but you bet your life nobody ever scaredme!"

After an instant's hesitation Ambrose seized it. "Now lead me to thisMacNeath person," said he. "I suppose we ought to be introduced, eh? Orhas he been told that I'm the Country Club leper?"

It was a sorely disappointed gallery that welcomed thesubstitute—disappointed and amazed; but the few Bellevue members wereopenly jubilant. They had reason to be, for word had been brought backto them that Lounsberry and Crane were running away with their matches.Between them and the cup they saw only a golfing novice, a junior memberwithout a war record. They immediately began offering odds of two to oneon the MacNeath-Phipps match; but there were no takers. The Dingbatsheld a lodge of sorrow in the shade of the caddie house and mournfullyestimated their losses, while our feminine contingent showed signs ofretreating to the porch and spending the afternoon at bridge.

MacNeath was first on the tee—a tall, flat-muscled, athletic man offorty; and, as the veteran was preparing to drive, Ambrose andMacQuarrie held a whispered conversation.

"Don't be foolish," counselled the canny Scot. "Ye'll have enough onyour mind wi'out makin' bets; an' for pity's sake, remember what I'vetold ye—slow back, don't press, keep your head down, an' count threebefore ye look up. Hit them like ye did this mor-rnin' an' ye've a grandchance to win."

MacNeath sent his usual tee shot straight down the course, a long,well-placed ball; and Ambrose stepped forward in the midst of a silencethat was almost painful.

"Mighty pretty," said he with a careless nod at his opponent. "Hope I doas well."

"Ye can," muttered old Dunn'l, "if ye'll keep your fool mouth shut an'your eye on the ball!"

As Ambrose stooped to arrange his tee he caught a glimpse of thegallery—a long, triple row of spectators, keenly interested in his nextmove—expectant, anxious, apprehensive. Something of the mental attitudeof the audience communicated itself to the youngster, and he paused foran instant, crouched on one knee. When he rose all the nonchalant easewas gone from his manner, all the cocksureness out of his eyes. Helooked again at MacNeath's ball, a white speck far down the fairway.MacQuarrie groaned and shook his head.

"Never mind that one!" he whispered to himself savagely. "Play the oneon the tee!"

Ambrose fidgeted as he took his stance, shifted his weight from one footto the other, and his first practise swing was short and jerky. Heseemed to realise this, for he tried again before he stepped forward tothe ball. It was no use; the result was the same. He had suddenlystiffened in every muscle and joint—gone tense with the nervous strain.He did manage to remember about the back swing—it was slow enough tosuit anybody; but at the top of it he faltered, hesitating just longenough to destroy the rhythm that produces a perfect shot. He realisedthis, too, and tried to make up for it by lunging desperately at theball; but as the club-face went through he jerked up his head and turnedit sharply to the left. The inevitable penalty for this triple error wasa wretchedly topped ball, which skipped along the ground until itreached the bunker.

This was as far as Ambrose got before he remembered that he had agallery. He scuttled off the tee, very much abashed; and MacNeathfollowed, covering the ground with long, even strides. There was justthe thin edge of a smile on the veteran's lean, bronzed face.

Moved by a common impulse, the spectators turned their backs and beganto drift across the lawn to the Number Ten tee. They had seen quiteenough. Old Doc Pinkinson voiced the general sentiment:

"No use following a bad match when you can see a good one, folks.Gilmore and Jordan are just driving off at Ten. I knew that redhead wasa fizzer—a false alarm."

"Can't understand why they let him play at all!" scolded Daddy Bradshaw."Might just as well putme in there against MacNeath! Fools!"

"He boggled his swing," growled Dunn'l; "he fair jumped at the ball, an'he looked up before he hit it. He'll do better wi'out a gallery. Comealong, sir!"

I followed as far as the first bunker. Though his ball was half buriedin the sand, Ambrose attempted to skim it over the wall with a mashie,an idiotic thing to do, and an all but impossible shot. He got exactlywhat his lunacy deserved—a much worse lie than before, close againstthe bank—and this exhibition of poor judgment cost him half hisaudience.

"What, not going already?" asked Ambrose after he had played four andpicked up his ball. "Stick round a while. This is going to begood."

"Everybody seems to feel the same way," said the redhead, looking at theretreating gallery. "All because I slopped that drive! I'll have thataudience back again—see if I don't! And I'll bet you I won't look up onanother shot all day!"

"If ye do," grumbled MacQuarrie, "I'll never play wi'ye again as long asye live!"

Our team veterans did not lack sympathetic encouragement on the lastnine holes, and all four matches tightened up to such an extent that wewavered between hope and fear until Crane's final putt on theseventeenth green dropped us into the depths of despair.

Gilmore, setting the pace with Jordan, gave us early encouragement bymaintaining a safe lead throughout and winning his match, 3 to 2. Firstblood was ours, but the period of rejoicing was a short one; for thedeliberate Lounsberry, approaching and putting with heartbreakingaccuracy, disposed of Bishop on the seventeenth green.

The Elder-Smathers match came to Number Seventeen all square; but ourman ended the suspense by dropping a beautiful mashie pitch dead to thepin from a distance of one hundred yards. Smathers' third shot alsoreached the green; but his long putt went wide and Elder tapped the ballinto the cup, adding a second victory to our credit.

"It's looking better every minute!" chirped the irrepressible DocPinkinson. "Now if Moreman can lick his man we're all hunky-dory. If heloses—good-a-by, cup! No use figuring on that red-headed snipe of akid. MacNeath has sent him to the cleaner's by now, sure!"

The gallery waited at the seventeenth green, watching in anxious silenceas Crane and Moreman played their pitch shots over the guarding bunker.Both were well on in threes; but the Bellevue caddie impudently held hisforefinger in the air as a sign that his man was one up. Moreman made agood try, but his fourth shot stopped a few inches from the cup; andCrane, after studying the roll of the green for a full minute, dropped aforty-foot putt for a four—and dropped our spirits with it.

"That settles it!" wheezed Daddy Bradshaw. "No need to bother about thatother match.... Oh, if Anderson was so set on breaking his leg, whydidn't he wait till to-morrow?"

"Then he could have busted 'em both," remarked the unfeeling Pinkinson,"and nobody would have said a word. Might's well pay those bets, Ireckon. We got as much chance as that snowball they're always talkingabout. If it didn't melt, somebody would eat it."

He turned and looked back along the course. Two figures appeared on theskyline, proceeding in the direction of the sixteenth tee. The first onewas tall, and moved with long, even strides; the second was short, andeven at the distance it seemed to strut and swagger.

"Hello!" ejaculated Pinkinson. "Ain't that MacNeath and the kid, goingto Sixteen? It is, by golly! D'you reckon they're playing out the byeholes just for fun—or what?"

"It can't be anything else," said Bradshaw. "The boy couldn't havecarried him that far."

Somebody plucked at my sleeve. It was a small dirty-faced caddie, verymuch out of breath.

"Mister Phipps says—if you want to see—some reg'lar golf—you'dbetter catch the finish—of his match. He says—bring all the gang withyou."

"The finish of his match!" I cried. "Isn't it over? You don't mean thatthey're still playing?"

"Still playin' is right!" panted the caddie. "They was all square-when Ileft 'em."

All square! Like a flash the news ran through the gallery. The variousgroups, already drifting disconsolately in the direction of theclubhouse, halted and began buzzing with excitement and incredulity. Allsquare? Nonsense! It couldn't be true. A green kid like that holdingMacNeath to an even game for fifteen holes? Rot! But, in spite of thedoubts so openly expressed, there was a brisk and general movementbackward along the course, with the sixteenth putting green as anobjective point.

It was a much augmented gallery that lined the side hill above thecontestants. All the other team members were there, our men surprisedand skeptical, and the Bellevue players nervous and apprehensive. Therewas also a troop of idle caddies, who had received the word by somemysterious wireless of their own devising.

"MacNeath is down in four," whispered one of the youngsters; "and Reddyhas got to sink this one."

Ambrose's ball was four feet from the cup. He walked up to it, took onelook at the line, one at the hole, and made the shot without aninstant's hesitation—a clean, firm tap that gave the ball no chance towaver, but sent it squarely into the middle of the cup. MacQuarriehimself could not have shown more confidence. MacNeath's caddie replacedthe flag in the hole, dropped both hands to his hips, and moved themback and forth in a level, sweeping gesture. His sign language answeredthe question uppermost in every mind. Still all square! A patter ofapplause gave thanks for the information and Ambrose looked up at uswith a quizzical grin. I caught his eye, and the rascal winked at me.

He was first on the seventeenth tee, and this time there was no sign ofnervous tension. After a single powerful practise swing he steppedforward to his ball, pressed the sole of his club lightly behind it, andgot off a tremendous tee shot. I noticed that his lips moved; and he didnot raise his head until the ball was well down the course.

"He's countin' three before he looks up!" whispered a voice in my ear;and there was MacQuarrie, the butt of a dead cigar between his teeth,and his eyes alive with all the emotions a Scot may feel but can neverexpress in words.

"Ay. Grand golf! They both have. It's a dingdong match, an' just aquestion which one will crack fir-rst."

MacNeath's drive held out no hope that he was about to crack under thestrain of an even battle. He executed the tee shot with the machinelikeprecision of the veteran golfer—stance, swing and follow-throughstandardised by years of experience.

Our seventeenth hole is a long one, par 5, and the approach to theputting green is guarded by an embankment, paralleled on the far side bya wide and treacherous sand trap, put there to encourage clean mashiepitches. The average player cannot reach the bunker on his second, muchless carry the sand trap on the other side of it; but the long driverssometimes string two tremendous wooden-club shots together and reach theedge of the green. More frequently they get into trouble and pay thepenalty for attempting too much.

The two balls were close together; but Ambrose's shot was the longer oneby a matter of feet, and it was up to MacNeath to play first. Would hegamble and go for the green, or would he play short and make sure of afive? The veteran estimated the distance, looked carefully at his lie,and then pulled an iron from his bag. Instantly I knew what was passingin his mind—sensed his golfing strategy: MacNeath intended to place hissecond shot short of the bunker, in the hope that Ambrose would betempted into risking the long, dangerous wooden-club shot across to thegreen.

"Aha!" whispered MacQuarrie. "The old fox! He'll not take a chancehimself, but he wants the lad to take one. '"Will ye walk into myparlour!" says the spider to the fly.' Ay; that's just it—will he,now?"

Ambrose gave us no time for suspense. MacNeath's ball had hardly stoppedrolling before his decision was made—and a sound one at that! Hewhipped his mid-iron from the bag.

"'Fraid I'll have to fool you, old chap," said he airily. "You wanted meto go for the green—eh, what? Well, I hate to disappoint you; but Ican't gamble in an even game—not when the kitty is a sand trap....Ride, you little round rascal; ride!"

The last remark was addressed to the ball just before the blade of themid-iron flicked it from the grass. Again there were two white specks inthe distance, lying side by side. If MacNeath was disappointed he didnot show it, but tramped on down the course, silent as usual andabsorbed in the game. Both took fives on the hole, missing long putts;and the battle was still all square.

Our home hole is a par 4—a blind drive and an iron pitch to the green;and the vital shot is the one from the tee. It must go absolutelystraight and high enough to carry the top of the hill, one hundred andforty yards away. To the right is an abrupt downward slope, ending in adeep ravine. To the left, and out of sight from the tee, is a wide sandtrap, with the father of all bunkers at its far edge. The only safe ballis the one that sails over the direction post.

Ambrose drove; and a smothered gasp went up from the gallery. The ballhad the speed of a bullet, as well as a perfect line; and, at first, Ithought it would rise enough to skim the crest of the hill. Instead ofthat, it seemed to duck in flight, caught the hard face of the incline,and kicked abruptly to the left. It was that crooked bound which brokeall our hearts; for we knew that, barring a miracle, our man was in thesand trap.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that!" he answered, rather stiffly. "I like to playmy second shot from over there."

"You're welcome!" said MacNeath; and completed our discomfiture bypoling out a tremendous shot, which carried well over the direction postand went sailing on up the plateau toward the clubhouse.

No man ever hit a longer ball at a more opportune time. As we toiled upthe hill I tried to say something hopeful.

"Not a hope!" said MacQuarrie, chewing at his cigar. "He'll be in—up tohis neck."

Sure enough, when we reached the summit there was the caddie, a mournfulstatue on the edge of the sand trap. The crowd halted at a properdistance and Ambrose and MacNeath went forward alone. MacQuarrie and Iswung off to the left, for we wanted to see how deep the ball was inand what sort of a lie it had found.

"Six feet in from the edge," muttered Dunn'l, "an' twenty feet away fromthe wall. Lyin' up on top of the sand too. An iron wi' a little loft toit, a clean shot, a good thir-rd, an' he might get a four yet. It's justpossible."

Ambrose had taken a seat on the edge of the trap; and as he looked fromthe ball to the bunker looming in front of it, he rolled a cigarette.

The caddie said something to him at this point; but Phipps shook his redhead impatiently and continued to puff at his cigarette. He caught aglimpse of me and beckoned.

At last he rose, tossed away the cigarette end and, reaching for hisbag, drew out a wooden club. Again the caddie said something; butAmbrose waved him away. There was not a sound from his audience, but ahundred heads wagged dolefully in unison. A wooden club—out of a trap?Suicide! Sheer suicide! An iron might give him a fighting chance tohalve the hole; but my last lingering hope died when I saw that club inthe boy's hand. The infernal young lunatic! I believe I said somethingof the sort to MacQuarrie.

"Well, it's just a kind of an exaggerated bulldog spoon—ye might almostcall it a wooden mashie, wi' a curvin' sole on it. It's great fordistance. The lie is good, the wind's behind him, an' if he can only hitit clean—clean!—--Oh, ye little red devil, keep your head down—keepyour head down an' hit it clean!"

I shall never forget the picture spread out along the edge of that greenplateau—the red-headed stocky youngster in the sand trap taking hisstance and whipping the clubhead back and forth; MacNeath coolly leaningon his driver and smiling over a match already won; the two caddies inthe background, one sneeringly triumphant, the other furiously angry;the rim of spectators, motionless, hopeless.

Everybody was watching Ambrose, and I think Old MacQuarrie was the onlyonlooker who was not absolutely certain that the choice of a wrong clubwas throwing away our last slender chance.

When the tension was almost unbearable the redhead turned and grinned atMacNeath.

"I suppose you'd shoot this with an iron," said he; "but the baffy is agreat club—if you've got the nerve to use it."

Ambrose settled his feet firmly in the sand, craned his neck for a finallook at the flag, two hundred yards away, dropped his chin on his chest,waggled the clubhead over the ball, and then swung with every ounce ofstrength in his sturdy body. I heard a sharp click, saw a tiny featherof sand spurt into the air, and against the blue sky I caught a glimpseof a soaring white speck, which went higher and higher until I lost italtogether. The next thing I knew, the spectators were cheering,yelling, screaming; and some one was hammering me violently between theshoulder blades. It was the unemotional Dunn'l MacQuarrie, gonecompletely daft with excitement.

"Oh, man!" he cried. "He picked it up as clean as a whistle, an' he's onthe green—on the green!"

"Told you that was a sweet little club!" said Ambrose as he climbed outof the trap. "Takes nerve to use one though. On the green, eh? Well, Iguess that'll hold you for a while."

His prediction soon had a solid backing of fact. MacNeath, the iron man,the dependable Number One, the match player without nerves, was notproof against a miracle. Ambrose's phenomenal recovery had shaken theveteran to the soles of his shoes.

MacNeath's second shot was an easy pitch to the green, but he lingeredtoo long over it; the blade of his mashie caught the turf at least threeinches behind the ball and shot it off at an angle into the thick, longgrass that guards the eighteenth green. He was forced to use a heavyniblick on his third; but the ball rolled thirty feet beyond the pin. Hetried hard for the long putt, but missed, and picked up when Ambroselaid his third shot on the lip of the cup.

By the most fortunate fluke ever seen on a golf course our little redIshmael had won for us the permanent possession of the Edward B. WimpusTrophy.

MacNeath was game. He picked up his ball with the left hand and offeredhis right to Ambrose. "Well done!" said he.

"Thanks!" responded Ambrose. "Guess I kind of jarred you with that baffyshot. It's certainly a dandy club in a pinch. Better let MacQuarrie makeyou one."

"It wasn't the club," said he. "It was just burglar's luck. You couldn'tdo it again in a thousand years!"

"Maybe not," replied the victor; "but when you get back to Bellevue youtell all the dear chappies there that I got away with it once—got awaywith it the one time when it counted!"

At this point the gallery closed in and overwhelmed young Mr. Phipps.Inside of a minute he heard more pleasant things about himself than hadcome to his ears in a lifetime. He did not dispute a single statementthat was made; nor did he discount one by so much as the deprecatinglift of an eyebrow. For once in his life he agreed with everybody. Inthe stag celebration that followed—with the Edward B. Wimpus Cup in themiddle of the big round table—he was easily induced to favour us with afew brief remarks. He informed us that tin cups were nothing in hisyoung life, club spirit was nothing, but that gameness waseverything—and the cheering was led by the Dingbats!

Now you know why we feel that we owe Ambrose something; and, if I am anyjudge, that debt will be paid with heavy interest. Dunn'l MacQuarrie isalso a winner. He has booked so many orders for baffles that he is nowendeavouring to secure the services of a first-class club maker.

As Ambrose often tells us, the baffy is a sweet little club to have inthe bag—provided, of course, you have the nerve to use it.

THE MAJOR, D.O.S.

I despise the sort of man who gloats and pokes his finger at you andreminds you that he told you so. I hope I am not in that class, and Iwould be the last to rub salt into an open wound; still I see no harm incalling attention to the fact that I once expressed an opinion which hadto do with Englishmen in general and Major Cuthbert EustaceLawes—D.S.O., and a lot of other initials—in particular. What is more,that opinion was expressed in the presence of Waddles Wilmot and oneother director of the Yavapai Golf and Country Club.

Those were my very words, and I stand by them. I point to them withpride. If Waddles had listened to me—but Waddles never listens toanybody. Sometimes he looks as if he might be listening, when as amatter of fact he is only resting his voice and thinking up somethingcutting and clever to say next.

Speaking of Waddles, the fault is not all his. We have indulged him withtoo much authority. We have allowed him to become a sort of autocrat, agolfing Pooh-Bah, a self-appointed committee of one with arbitrarypowers. He began looking after the club when it was in its infancy, andnow that the organisation has grown to quite respectable proportions hedoes not seem to know how to let go gracefully. He still looks after us,whether we want him to or not, and if it is only the getting out of anew score card Waddles must attend to it, having the first word, thelast word and all the words between.

If any one presumes to disagree with him Waddles merely snorts in thatdisdainful way of his and goes on talking louder and louder untilfinally the opposition succumbs, blown down by sheer lung power, as itwere, gassed before reaching the trenches. Wind is all right in itsplace, and in moderation, but a steady gale gets on the nerves in time.Waddles is a human simoom, carrying dust, sand and cactus.

I say this in all kindness, for I am really fond of the old boy. He hasmany admirable qualities, and frequently tells us what they are, butconsideration for others is not one of them; and when he plays golf thethings he does to an opponent are sinful. He is just as ruthless andoverbearing on the links as he is in committee meeting—but of this,more anon—much more. I made my remark about Englishmen a month or soafter the Major became a member of the club. We understood that Laweswas a retired infantry officer in poor health, and when he arrived inour part of the world he brought with him a Hindu servant with his headwrapped up in about forty yards of cheesecloth, an unquenchable thirst,some gilt-edged letters of introduction from big people, and a hobnailliver. He was proposed by two of our financial moguls and passed themembership committee without a whisper of dissent.

"This old bird," said Waddles, "is probably a cracking good golfer.Nearly all Englishmen are. We can use him to plug up that weak spot onthe team." And of course he looked straight at me when he said it.Goodness knows, I never asked to be put on the club team, and I play myworst golf in competition.

Some of the other men thought that the Major would lend a bit of tone tothe organisation. I presume they got the idea from the string ofinitials after his name.

As to his golfing, the Major proved a disappointment. He did not seem inany haste to avail himself of the privileges of active membership, andwhen at the club he spent all his time sitting on the porch and staringat the mountains in the distance. I don't remember ever seeing himwithout a tall brandy highball at his elbow.

Personally, the Major wasn't much to look at. You could just as easilyhave guessed the age of a mummy. He was long-legged and cadaverous,with thin, sandy hair and a yellowish moustache that never seemed to betrimmed. His mouth was always slightly ajar, his front teeth were undulyprominent, and his chin was short and receded at an acute angle. A sideview of the Major suggested a tired, half-starved old rabbit that hadlost all interest in life. His eyes were a faded light blue in colourand blinked constantly without a vestige of human expression. He wasfreckled like a turkey egg—freckled all over, but mostly on the neckand the forearms. When he spoke, which was seldom, it was in a thin,hesitating treble, reminiscent of a strayed sheep, and he had anexasperating habit of leaving a sentence half finished and beginning onanother one. He could sit for hours, staring straight in front of himand apparently seeing nothing at all. When addressed he usually jumpedhalf out of his chair and said something like this:

Socially he was a very mangy-looking lion, but we understood that he wasvery well connected in the old country and not so stupid as he seemed.He couldn't have been, and lived. He was a bachelor of independentmeans; he bought a bungalow on Medway Hill and a six-cylinder runabout,which the servant learned to drive, after a fearsome fashion. This putthe Major out of the winter-visitor class—which was reassuring—but asthe weeks passed and he was never seen with a golf club in his handsWaddles began to worry about that weak spot on the team.

Three of us were watching Lawes one afternoon through a window of thelounging room, which commands a view of the porch. The Major was spreadout in a big wicker chair, and, save for certain mechanical movements ofthe right hand and arm, was as motionless as a turtle on a log. Asusual, Waddles was doing most of the talking.

"Ain't he the study in still life, eh?... With the accent on thestill—get me? Still! Ho, ho! Not bad a bit.... Gaze upon him,gentlemen; the world's most consistent rum hound! He hasn't moved amuscle in the last hour except to lift that glass. Wonderful type of theathletic Englishman, what-oh? Devoted to sports and pastimes, my word,yes! He wouldn't qualify for putting the shot, but for putting thehighball I'll back him against all comers."

"Oh, I don't know," said Jay Gilman, who is a conservative sort of chapand knows Waddles well enough not to believe everything he says. "Idon't know. The old boy makes a drink last a long time. He doesn't ordermany in the course of an afternoon. I've never seen him the least bitedged."

"Fellow like that never gets edged," argued Waddles. "The skin staysjust so full all the time. Can't get any fuller. Did you ever try totalk with his royal jaglets? Sociable as an oyster! I tried to get himopened up the other day. He's been in India and Africa and everywhereelse, they tell me, and I thought he might want to gas about hisexperiences. War stuff. Nothing stirring. A frost. Kidded him about theBoers, and the way the embattled farmers hung it on perfidious Albion.Couldn't even get a rise out of him. All he did was stare at me withthose fishy eyes of his and make motions with his Adam's apple! Evernotice the way he watches you when you're talking to him? It's enough tomake a man nervous! A major, eh? If he was a major, I wonder what theshave-tail lieutenants were like! D.S.O.! They got the initials balledup when they hitched that title to him. It should have been D.O.S.!"

It was then that I expressed my opinion, as previously quoted: "Youcan't tell much about an Englishman by looking at him."

But for Cyril, I suppose the Major would have remained a chair warmerindefinitely.

Cyril was the Major's nephew, doing a bit of globe trotting aftergetting out of college, and he dropped in out of a clear sky, taking theMajor entirely by surprise. We heard later that all the Major said was,"Bless me, it's Cyril, isn't it?"

Looking at the boy, you knew at once what the Major had been like attwenty-five or thereabouts; so it goes without saying that Cyril was nomotion-picture type for beauty. He was tall and thin and gangling, hisfeet were always in his way, his clothes did not fit him and would nothave fitted anything human, his cloth hats were really not hats at allbut speckled poultices, and he was as British as the unicorn itself. Hewas almost painfully shy when among strangers, and blushed if any onespoke to him; but his coming seemed to cheer the Major tremendously. Ithadn't occurred to me before, but I presume the D.O.S. had been lonelyfor his kind. Cyril was his kind—no question about that—and the pairof them held a love feast which lasted all of one afternoon. Waddleswitnessed this touching family reunion and told us about it afterward,but it is likely he handled the truth in his usual nonchalant manner.Waddles would never spoil a good story for the sake of mere accuracy.

"It was great stuff!" said he. "They sat out there on the porch andgabbled terribly. A dumb man couldn't have got a word in edge-wise. TheMajor was never at a loss for a topic of conversation. As fast as onewas exhausted he would look in his glass and say, 'Shan't we haveanother, dear boy?' Friend Nephew never missed his cue once. 'Rawther!'he'd say, or 'Right-oh!' Then the Major would hoist signals of distressand make signs at the waiter. Oh, it was lovely to see them taking somuch comfort in each other's society—and so much nourishment."

"Not so you could notice it with the naked eye. For all the effect thatanybody could see, the stuff might just as well have been poured into apair of gopher holes. They went away at six o'clock, solemn anddignified, loaded to capacity but not even listing the least bit fromthe cargo they'd taken on. A lot of raw material wasted. That sort ofthing is inhuman—uncanny. It must be a gift that runs infamilies—what?"

Before long we had a real sensation—the Major blossomed out into aplaying member. A mummy doing a song and dance wouldn't have created anymore excitement round the clubhouse. Even the caddies were talking aboutit.

Sam broke the news to me while I was practising mid-iron shots on theother side of the eighteenth green. Sam has carried my bag for years. Heis too old to be a caddie, too young to be a member of the SupremeCourt, and too wise for either job. He shoots the course in theseventies every time he can dodge the greens keeper—play by employesbeing strictly prohibited. He has forgotten more golf than I shall everknow, and tries hard to conceal the superiority he feels, but neverquite makes the grade. You know the sort of caddie I mean—every clubhas a few like Sam.

"There you go again! What did I tell you about playin' the ball too faroff your right foot? Stiffen up those wrists a bit—don't let 'em flopso. Put some forearm into the shot, and never mind lookin' up to seewhere the ball goes.... Say, that long, thin gentleman, him with thenose and teeth—the one they call the Major, that sits on the porch somuch liftin' tall ones—I caddied for him this morning."

"Yeh, I do. Sure! Him and his relative—the young fellah. Serial, ain'tit? Well, they was both out early this morning, the Major beefin' alittle about losin' his sleep, and sayin' he wouldn't make a fool ofhimself for anybody else on earth; but after he connected with a fewshots he began to enjoy it and talk about what a lovely day it was goin'to be. You know how it is: any weather looks good to you when your shotsare comin' off."

"Who, the Major? A shark, I tell you! That old boy has been a greatgolfer in his day, and it wasn't so long ago neither. To look at him youwouldn't think he had a full cleek shot in his system, but that's wherehe'd fool you. What's more, he knows where it's goin' when he ties intoit. The young fellah plays a mighty sweet game—mighty sweet. He hitseverything clean and hard and right on the line, but give the Major afew days' practise and he'll carry my small change every time. Knowsmore golf than Serial—got more shots, and he's a whale with his irons.He's a little wild with his wood off the tee—hooks too much and getsinto trouble—but when he straightens out that drive he'll have Serialplayin' the odd behind him. Say, it'd be great to get 'em both into theInvitation Tournament, eh?"

Now our Invitation Tournament is the big show of the year in golfingcircles. Waddles sees to that. All members of the association areeligible, but visitors have to have a card and an invitation as well.

Waddles always scans these visitors very closely, and if a man is knownas a cup hunter no amount of pressure can get him in. The Major, being amember of the club, was automatically invited to participate, but Cyrilmust be classed as a visitor.

I went to Waddles and told him what Sam had told me, suggesting thathere was the chance to coax the Major off the porch for good, andperhaps get him onto the team later. I said that I thought it would be agraceful thing to issue an invitation to Cyril without waiting for arequest from the Major.

"You poor fish!" said Waddles. "I was going to do that anyway. Do youthink I'm asleep all the time?"

That is the way with Waddles. He can catch an idea on the fly, andbefore it settles he has adopted it as his own. He doesn't care abrass-mounted continental who scared it up in the first place. Before itlights it is his—all his. He said he didn't believe the Major was halfso good as his advance notices, and, as for the full cleek shot, hepooh-poohed that part of the story entirely. Waddles has never masteredthe cleek, but he is a demon with a bulldog spoon or with a brassy.

"I'll do this thing—as a common courtesy to a member," said Waddles;"but I'm not counting on the Major's golf. A man can't lay off formonths and come back playing any sort of a game."

So the invitation was issued in Cyril's name, and we went in search ofthe Major. He was on the porch and Cyril was practising putts on theclock green.

Waddles can be very formal and dignified and diplomatic when he wants tobe, and as a salve spreader he has few equals and no superiors. He paysa compliment in such a bluff, hearty fashion that it carries with it anair of absolute sincerity.

"Major," he began, "I can't tell you how delighted I am to hear that youhave taken up the game again. Aside from the pleasure, it is bound tobenefit your health."

"Eh?" said the Major, staring at Waddles intently. "Oh, yes! I'm feelingquite well at present, thanks."

"And you'll feel better for taking exercise," continued Waddles. "We arehoping that you will enter our Invitation Tournament next week. You'llget a number of good matches, meet some charming people and make somefriends. Play begins on Wednesday."

"You can pick your own partner in the qualifying round." And hereWaddles brought out the envelope containing the invitation. "I thoughtlikely you might want to play with your nephew."

The Major took the envelope and opened it. After he had read theinclosure he looked up at Waddles and smiled.

"Very kind of you, I'm sure," said he. "Most kind. Cyril will appreciatethis.... Shan't we have a drink?"

"Can you beat him?" said Waddles to me when we were back in the loungingroom. "Just about as chummy as an oyster!"

"Either that or very inattentive," said I; "but just the same I thinkhe'll play. Cyril will persuade him."

"I don't care a whoop whether he plays or not," growled Waddles. "I hatea man who can't loosen up andtalk!"

Waddles took my remark as personal and wolfed at me for half an hour.Why is it that the man who has no consideration for your feelings isalways so confoundedly sensitive about his own?

III

Flashing now to a close-up of the scores for the qualifying round, therewere two strange faces in the first sixteen—Cyril's and theMajor's—and Cyril walked off with the cup offered for low man. Hisseventy-three created quite a commotion among the Class A men, but theMajor's eighty-one was what knocked them all a twister. Even Waddles wasamazed. Waddles had turned in an eighty-five, which barely got him intothe championship flight, but medal scores are nothing in Waddles' life.Match play is where he shines—match play against a nervous opponent.

"The old rum-hound must have been shooting over his head," said Waddles."I'll bet he holed a lot of niblick shots."

I might have been in the fourth flight if I had not picked up my ballafter playing eleven in the ditch at the fifth hole, and by that acteliminated myself from the tournament. I finished the round, of course,and signed my partner's card, becoming thereafter a mere spectator and abit of the gallery.

Sam was disgusted with me—so much so that he refused me advice orsympathy. As a usual thing Sam walks up on a drive and selects the clubwhich he thinks I should use. I may disagree with him, but I notice thatin the end I always make the shot with the club of his selection. If Iam short he tells me that I spared the shot; if I am over he says I hitit too hard.

After the catastrophe at the fifth hole Sam stood the bag on end andturned his back, a statue of silent contempt. When he allows me to pickout a club I know that he has washed his hands of me; when he will notaccept a cigarette I am past praying for. I can think of nothing morekeenly humiliating than to feel myself a disappointment to a caddie likeSam, but I have disappointed him so often that he should be gettinghardened to it by now.

The first and second rounds of match play took place on Thursday, andthe pairings put Cyril at the top of the drawing and the Major at thebottom. When the day was over the first flight had assumed a distinctlyinternational aspect, for the semifinalists appeared as follows:

Cyril had won his matches quite handily and without being pressed, butthe Major had caught a brace of seasoned campaigners, one of whom tookhim to the twentieth hole before he passed out on the end of a longrainbow putt.

Gilman had played his usual steady game—nothing brilliant about it, butextremely dependable; and, as for Waddles, he had staggered along on theragged edge of defeat both morning and afternoon, annoying his opponentsas much as possible and winning quite as much with his head as with hisclubs.

The time has come to say a few brief but burning words about the wayfriend Waddles plays the royal and ancient game of golf when there isanything in sight for the victor. I trust that when he reads this hewill have the decency to remember that he had already cut my handicap tothe quick, as it were.

To begin with, Waddles has no more form than an apple woman or a Cubistnude. He is so constructed that he cannot take a full swing to save hisimmortal soul. Everything has to be wrist and forearm with Waddles, butsomehow or other he manages to snap his foolish little tee shotsstraight down the middle of the course, popping them high over thebunkers and avoiding all the traps and pits. The special providence thatcares for taxicab drivers, sailors and drunken men seems to take chargeof Waddles' ball in flight, imparting to it a tremendous overspin thatgives it distance. I never saw Waddles square away at a drive withoutpitying him for his short, choppy swing; but he usually beats me aboutten yards on account of the run that he gets. I never watched him jab ata putt without feeling certain that the ball was hit too hard to stay inthe hole; but stay it does. Waddles actually putts with an overspin, andhis ball burrows like a mole, dropping into the cup as if made of lead.

His brassy shots are just pusillanimous—there is no other word whichdescribes them accurately—but somehow they keep on bouncing toward thepin. His irons run half-way and creep the rest of the distance. Healways gets better results than his shots deserve, and complains that heshould have had more. This one little trick of his is enough to drive anopponent crazy. Every golfer knows the moral—no, immoral—effect ofgoing up against some one who gets more out of every shot than he putsinto it, and still is not satisfied. It is like sitting in a poker gamewith a man who draws four to a deuce, makes an ace full, wins the pot,and then wolfs because it wasn't four aces.

I never played with Waddles without feeling certain that I could showhim up on the long game, and it was straining to do it that ruined me.Trying to pick the tail feathers out of that lame duck has ruined many agolfer, the secret being that the duck isn't as lame as he looks.Waddles makes 'em all press—a big factor in his match play; but thereare others, and not nearly so legitimate.

Playing the game strictly on merit, observing all the little niceties ofdemeanour and the courtesies due an opponent, Waddles would be adesperately hard man to beat; but he does not stop at merit. When he isout to win he does not stop anywhere. He has made a lifelong study ofthe various ways in which an opponent may be annoyed and put off hisgame, and he is the acknowledged master of all of them.

For instance, if he plays Doc Jones, who is chatty and conversationaland likes to talk between shots, Waddles never opens his mouth once, butplods along with a scowl on his face and his lower lip sticking out afoot. Before long the poor little Doc begins to wonder whether he hassaid anything to hurt Waddles' feelings—and that is the end of Jones.But if Waddles plays Chester Hodge, who believes that the secret of awinning game is concentration, he is a perfect windmill, talking toChester every minute, telling him funny stories, asking him questions,and literally conversing him off his feet.

Bill Mulqueen is nervous and impatient and hates to wait on his secondshots; so when Waddles plays him he drives short and takes five minutesto play the odd, while Bill fumes and frets and accumulates steam forthe final explosion, which never fails to strew the last nine with hismangled remains. On the other hand, old Barrison is deliberation itself,and Waddles beats him by playing his own shots quickly and then crowdingBarry—hurrying him up, nagging at him, riding him from shot to shot,trying to speed up an engine that can't be speeded without rackingitself to pieces. Joe Bowhan hates to have any one moving about the teewhen he is setting himself to drive. Waddles licks him by washing hisball fresh on every hole. Joe can't see him, but he can hear himscouring away behind him. "Hand-laundered out of the contest again" iswhat Joe tells us when he comes into the clubhouse.

Perhaps the cruelest thing Waddles ever did was in the finals of theSpring Handicap against young Archie Gatter. The kid was inclined tothink fairly well of himself and his game, but on the day of the matchWaddles lugged a visiting golf architect round the course with him,planning improvements in the way of traps and bunkers, discussingvarious kinds of grass for the greens, arguing about soil, and paying noattention whatever to the wretched Archie—not even watching him makehis shots. It broke the boy's heart to be ignored so completely, and heshot the last nine holes in a fat fifty-seven, finishing a total wreck.

These are only a few of Waddles' little villainies, and the fact that heis a consistent winner at match play bears out the theory that the beststudy of golf is golfers—splitting it fifty-fifty with the late Mr.Pope.

The most exasperating thing about Waddles is the bland, unconsciousmanner in which he perpetrates these outrages upon his opponents. Henever seems aware that he is doing anything wrong or taking an unfairadvantage; he pleads thoughtlessness if driven into a corner—and getsaway with it too. You have to know Waddles very well before you arecertain that every little movement has a meaning all its own and is partof a cold-blooded and deliberate plan of campaign.

With all these things in mind, I had a hunch that Friday's match withCyril would be worth watching, and I was at the clubhouse at nine in themorning. Cyril and the Major were already there, driving practise balls.It was generally understood that the matches in the semi-finals wouldstart at nine-thirty, and promptly on the dot Jay Gilman and the Majorwere on their way—both of them off to perfect drives.

I waited to follow Cyril and Waddles—and a long, weary wait it was.There is nothing which secures the angora so neatly and completely as tobe all dressed up and keyed up with nowhere to go. Have you ever seen aboxer fretting and chafing in his corner, waiting for the champion toput in an appearance; and did you ever stop to think that the champion,in his dressing room, was counting on the effect of that nervous periodof inactivity? Golf is a game which demands mental poise, and Cyril waslosing his, minute by minute. He prowled all over the place, searchingfor Waddles; he walked out and looked down the road toward town; hepracticed putting—and hit every shot too hard. If he had not been anEnglishman, and schooled to keep his feelings to himself, I think hewould have said something of a blistering nature.

It was eleven-fifteen when Waddles arrived, dripping apologies fromevery pore. Had Cyril understood that nine-thirty was the hour? Well,wasn't that a shame—too bad he hadn't telephoned or something! Waddlesstated—and there was and is no reason to doubt his word—that hethought the matches were scheduled for the afternoon. He dawdled in thelocker room for a scandalously long time, while Cyril made littlejourneys to the first tee and back again, growing warmer and warmer witheach trip.

When Waddles finally emerged, neatly swathed in flannels, he suggestedlunch. Cyril replied a bit stiffly that he never took food in the middleof the day.

"And a hard match in front of you, too," said Waddles. "I couldn't thinkof starting without a sandwich. Do you mind waiting while I have one?"

Cyril lied politely, but it was a terrible strain on him, and Waddlesconsumed a sandwich, a glass of milk and forty-five minutes more. Thenhe had to have one of his irons wrapped where the shaft hadsplit—another straw for the camel's back. By this time the Major andJay had finished their match, the Major winning on the sixteenth green.They joined the gallery, after the usual ceremonies at the nineteenthhole.

"Are you ready?" asked Waddles, breezing out on the first tee—and thatwas rather nervy, too, seeing that Cyril hadn't been anything else forthree mortal hours.

"After you, sir," said the boy, short and sharp. He knew that he wasgetting "the work," and he resented it.

It always suits Waddles to have the honour. He likes to shoot firstbecause his tee shot usually makes an opponent sore. He popped one ofhis dinky little drives into the air, but instead of dropping into thebunker it floated beyond it to the middle of the course and ran like ascared rabbit.

"No distance!" grumbled Waddles, slapping his club on the tee. "Nodistance. I'm all out of luck to-day."

Well, that was no more than rubbing it in by word of mouth. It producedthe desired effect, because Cyril nearly broke himself in two in anattempt to beat that choppy half-arm swing. He swung much too hard,didn't follow through at all, and the ball sliced into a trap far up tothe right.

"Do you know what you did then?" asked Waddles. "You tried to kill it,you didn't follow through, and——"

"And I sliced. I know perfectly, thanks." And Cyril started down thecourse, with Waddles tagging at his hip and telling him what was thematter with his swing. Coming from a man who never took a full-armwallop at a ball in his life, criticism must have seemed superfluous. Icouldn't see Cyril's face, but his ears reddened.

Waddles slapped a brassy to the edge of the putting green, but Cyril,trying for distance out of a heel print, took too much sand and barelygot back on the course again. His third reached the green, whereuponWaddles promptly laid his ball dead for a four. Cyril missed atwenty-footer and lost the first hole.

Again Waddles spatted out a drive that narrowly escaped a cross bunker,but it struck on a hard spot and ran fully one hundred yards before itstopped. Waddles knows every hard spot on the course and governs himselfaccordingly.

Cyril followed through this time—followed through so vigorously thatthe ball developed a hook. A cross wind helped it along into the roughgrass, leaving him a nasty second shot over shrubbery and trees. Ithadn't stopped rolling before Waddles was talking again.

"Precisely," said Cyril, and left the tee almost on a dog-trot; butWaddles trotted with him, explaining what had happened to the clubhead. He was so earnest about it, so eager to be of assistance, sopersistent, that Cyril did not know how to take him. Then, to add to theboy's discomfiture, Waddles played a perfect spoon shot, takingadvantage of the wind, and the ball stopped six feet from the pin. Onlya miracle could have saved Cyril after that, and there were no miraclesleft in his system. His ball carried low from the rough, struck the limbof a tree and glanced out of bounds. He played another, which droppedinto thick weeds, and then picked up, conceding the hole. All the way tothe third tee Waddles expounded the theory of the niblick shot out ofgrass, pausing only to spat another perfect ball down the course.

It was here that Cyril left the wood in his bag and took out a cleek. Hewanted distance and he needed direction, our third hole calling for awell-placed tee shot; but he sliced just enough to put him squarelybehind the largest tree on the entire course.

"I was sure you'd do that," said Waddles, sympathetically. "It's reallya wooden club shot, and when you took your iron I knew you were afraidof it. Changing clubs is always a sign of weakness, don't you think so?"

Cyril mumbled something and started down the path, and at this point theold Major, who had been lingering in the background, swung in behind himwith his first and last bit of advice.

"Keep your hair on, dear boy," he bleated. "Keep your hair on. Whateverhappens, don't get waxy."

Cyril grunted but didn't say anything, and the Major dropped to the rearagain, making queer little noises in his throat.

"Now the ideal—shot on this—hole," panted Waddles, overtaking hisvictim, "is a little bit—farther to the left. A hook—doesn't hurtyou—as much—as a slice——"

"Why, of course not!" cried Waddles with the heartiest good nature. "Ofcourse not—but if your ball—had been farther to the left—you wouldn'thave to play—over that tree—and——" There was more, but Cyril did notwait to hear it.

Waddles, executing his second with mechanical precision, carried thedeep ravine with his mashie and put the ball on the green for a surefour. Off to the right Cyril prepared to do likewise, but the treeloomed ahead of him, his nerves were unstrung, his temper was ruffled,and instead of going cleanly under the ball he caught the turf fourinches behind it and pitched into the ravine, where he found a lie thatwas all but unplayable.

Cyril turned and looked at him. I expected an outburst of some sort, butthe boy was evidently trying to keep his hair on.

"I didn't hit it," said he at length, swallowing hard. I heard an oddchoking noise behind me. It was the Major, attempting to remain calm.

"Of course you didn't hit it!" agreed Waddles. "You took a hatful ofturf; and you know why, don't you?"

Why follow the harrying details too closely? With the Major as chiefmourner, and Waddles holding sympathetic postmortems on all his badshots, Cyril suffered a complete collapse. I could have beaten him—anyone could have beaten him—and as a matter of fact he beat himself.Having found his weak spot, Waddles never let up for an instant. Talk,talk, talk; his flow of conversation was as irritating as a neighbour'sphonograph, and as incessant. I wondered that Cyril contained himself aswell as he did, until I remembered that it is tradition with the Englishto lose as silently as they win.

The Major, who saw it all, addressed but one remark to me. It was on thetenth hole, and Waddles was showing Cyril why he had topped an ironshot.

"Look here," said the Major, jerking his thumb at Waddles, "does healways do this sort of thing? Talk so much, I mean?"

I replied, and quite truthfully, that it depended on the way he felt.The Major grunted, and that ended the conversation.

The match was wound up on the thirteenth; Cyril shook hands,complimented Waddles on his game, and made a bee line for theclubhouse. Nobody could blame him for not wanting to finish the round.Waddles tagged along at his elbow, gesticulating, explaining the theoryof golf, even offering to illustrate certain shots with which Cyril hadhad trouble.

The Major spent the rest of the afternoon on the porch, nursing a tallglass and looking at the hills. After a shower Cyril joined him.

"The blooming Britons are holding a lodge of sorrow," said Waddles, whowas in high spirits. "What's the betting on the finals to-morrow?"

"I'll back the Major," spoke up Jay Gilman, "if you'll promise not totalk the shirt off his back."

"Just the same," persisted Jay, "I'll take the Major's end if you'llpromise to keep your mouth shut."

"I'll accept no bets on that basis," Waddles announced. "I like afriendly, chatty game."

"I've got you for fifty, then, and talk your head off!" And Jay laugheduntil I thought he would choke. As a matter of fact, he laughed all therest of the afternoon.

Quite a gallery turned out for the finals, and this time there was nodelay. Waddles was on hand early, and so was the Major. There wasconsiderable betting, for Jay Gilman insisted on backing the Major tothe limit.

"You're only doing that because he beat you," said Waddles in an injuredtone of voice.

"What? Not weakening already?" asked Jay. "A hundred, and no limit onthe conversation!"

He would have taken the honour, too, if the Major had not beaten him toit. The old fellow ambled out on the tee, helped himself to a pinch ofsand, patted it down carefully, adjusted his ball, and hit a screamerdead on the pin, with just enough hook to make it run well. Then hestepped back, clapped his hands to his waist and cackled—actuallycackled like a hen.

"Do you know," said he, addressing Waddles—"I believe I've burst mybelt! Yes, I'm quite certain I have; but don't fear, old chap. Isha'n't be indecent. I have braces on. Ho, ho, ho!"

Waddles paused with his mouth open. At first I thought he was going tosay something, but evidently nothing occurred to him, so he teed hisball and took his stance.

"It was an old one," said the Major. "I've worn it for ages. Given me byFreddy Fitzpatrick. Queer chap, Fitz.... You don't mind my babbling alittle, do you? Dare say I'm a bit nervous."

"Oh, not in the least," grunted Waddles, addressing his ball. He hit hisusual drive, with the usual result, but his ball was at least fortyyards short of the Major's.

"Very fortunate, sir!" bleated the Major, following Waddles from thetee. "Blest if I see how you do it! Your form—you don't mind criticism,old chap?—your form is wretchedly bad. Atrocious! Your swing iscramped, your stance is awkward, yet somehow you manage to get over thebunkers. Extraordinary, I call it. Some day you shall teach me thestroke if you will, eh?"

Waddles didn't say a word. He tucked his chin down into his collar andmade tracks for his ball, but there was a puzzled look in his eyes. Hedidn't seem to know what to make of this sudden flood of conversation.The Major was with him every step of the way, blatting about his friendFitzpatrick.

"He had a stroke like yours, old Fitz. Frightfully crippled up withrheumatism, poor chap! Abominable golfer! No form, no swing, but thedevil's own luck.... I say, what club shall you use next? I should takea cleek, but you don't carry one, I've noticed. Too bad. Very usefulclub, but it calls for a full, clean swing. You'd boggle a cleekhorribly.... You're taking a brassy? Quite right, old chap, quite right.I should, too, if I couldn't depend on my irons."

Waddles waved the Major aside, and pulled off his shot; but it seemed tome that he hurried the least little bit. Perhaps he was expectinganother outburst of language. His ball stopped ten yards short of theputting green.

"Ah!" said the Major. "You stabbed at that one, dear boy. Old Fitzstabbed his second shots too. Nervousness, I dare say; but you haven'tthe look of a man with nerves. Rather beefy for that, I should think.Tight match, and all. Too much food, perhaps. Never can tell, eh? OldFitz was a gross feeder too.... Now I'm going to take an iron, and ifyou don't mind I wish you'd stand behind me and tell me how to shortenmy swing a bit. I'm inclined to play an iron too strong.... A littlefarther over, if you please. I don't want you where I can see you, oldchap, but I sha'n't mind your talking."

The Major pulled his mid-iron out of the bag and Waddles obliged with asteady stream of advice, not one item of which was heeded:

"Advance that left foot a little, and don't drop your shoulder so much!Come back a bit slower, keep your eye on the ball, start your swinghigher up——"

At this point the blade of the mid-iron connected with the ball and sentit sailing straight for the pin—a beautiful shot, and clean as awhistle. A white speck bounded on the green and rolled past the hole.

"You're up there for a putt!" snorted Waddles. "What did you expect—atthis distance?"

"With your assistance," continued the Major, ignoring Waddles' sarcasm,"I shall shorten my swing. You've the shortest swing I've ever seen.Shorter than poor old Fitz's. I'm sorry about that belt, but I sha'n'tbe indecent. I have braces on—suspenders, I believe you call them." Hesquinted at his ball as he advanced. "Too strong. Never mind. I dare sayI shall hole the putt.... You're taking a mashie next? Trickyshot—very, especially on a fast green."

Waddles composed himself with a visible effort and really achieved avery fine approach shot. The ball had the perfect line to the hole, butwas three feet short of the cup.

"Never up, never in!" cackled the Major, and proceeded to sink athree—a nasty, twisting twelve-footer, and downhill at that. There wasa patter of applause from the gallery, started by Gilman and Cyril. TheMajor marched to the second tee, babbling continually:

"I owe you an apology. Never had a three there before. Never shallagain. Stroke under par, isn't it? Not at all bad for a beginning.Better luck next time. Wish I hadn't broken this belt. Puts me off myshots."

"What do you mean—better luck next time?" demanded Waddles, but got noresponse. The Major had switched to his friend Fitzpatrick, and waschirping about rheumatism and gout and heaven knows what all. He stoppedtalking just long enough to peel off another tremendous drive, and if hehad taken the ball in his hand and carried it out on the course hecouldn't have selected a better spot from which to play his second.

It was on this tee that Waddles tried to hand the Major's stuff back tohim, probably figuring that he could stand as much conversation as hisopponent, and last longer at the repartee. He began to tell the story ofthe Scotch golfer and his collie dog, which is one of the best things hedoes, but I noticed that when it came time for him to drive he gruntedas he hit the ball, and when Waddles grunts it is a sign that he iscalling up the reserves. He got the same old shot and the same old run,and would have finished the same old story, but the Major horned in witha long-winded reminiscence of his own, and the collie was lost in theshuffle. Another animal was lost too—a goat belonging to Waddles. Hespoke sharply to his opponent before playing his second, and then sliceda spoon shot deep into the rough.

"Ah, too bad!" chirruped the Major. "And the grass is quite deep overthere, isn't it? Now I shall use the mid-iron again, and you shall watchand tell me about my swing—that is, if you don't mind, old chap."

Waddles didn't mind. He told the Major enough things to rattle a woodenIndian, and just as the club had started to descend he raised his voicesharply. It would have made me miss the ball entirely, but it seemed tohave no effect on the Major, who did not even flinch but lined one outto the green.

Waddles wandered off into the rough, mumbling to his caddie. The thirdshot was a remarkable one. He tore the ball out of the thick grass,raised it high in the air and put it on the green, six feet from thecup. The Major then laid his third shot stone-dead for a four. Waddlesstill had a difficult putt to halve the hole, but while he was studyingthe roll of the green the Major spoke up.

The Major nodded and walked off the green. Waddles looked first at hisball, then at the cup, and then at the crowd of spectators. At last hepicked up and followed, and a whisper ran through the gallery. Thegeneral impression prevailed that conceding a six-foot putt at theoutset of an important match was nothing short of emotional insanity.

Of course since he had been offered a four on the hole Waddles could donothing but accept it gracefully—and begin wondering why on earth hisopponent had been so generous. I dare any golfer to put himself inWaddles' place and arrive at a conclusion soothing to the nerves and thetemper. The most natural inference was that the Major held him cheaply,pitied him, did not fear his game.

I thought this was what the old fellow was getting at, but it was notuntil they reached the third putting green that I began to appreciatethe depth of the Major's cunning and the diabolical cleverness of hisgolfing strategy.

Waddles had a two-foot putt to halve the third hole—a straight, simpletap over a perfectly flat surface—the sort of putt that he can makewith his eyes shut, ninety-nine times out of the hundred. The Major hadalready holed his four, and I knew by the careless manner in whichWaddles stepped up to his ball that he expected the Major to concede theputt. It was natural for him to expect it, since he had already beengiven a difficult six-footer.

Waddles stood there, waggling his putter behind the ball and waiting forthe Major to say the word, but the word did not come. This seemed toirritate Waddles. He looked at the Major, and his expression said, plainas print, "You don't really insist on my making this dinky little putt?"It was all wasted, for the Major was regarding him with a fishystare—looking clear through him in fact. The expectant light faded outof Waddles' eyes. He shrugged his shoulders and gave his attention tothe shot, examining every inch of the line to the cup. It seemed to be astraight putt, but was it? Waddles took his lower lip in his teeth andtapped the ball very gently. It ran off to the left, missing the cup byat least three inches.

"Aha!" chuckled the Major. "You thought I would give you that one too,eh? Old Fitz used to say, 'Give a man a hard putt and he'll miss an easyone. After that he'll never be sure of anything.' Extraordinary howoften it happens just that way. Seems to have an unsettling effect onthe nerves. Tricky beggar, Fitz. Won the Duffers' Cup at Bombay byconceding a twenty-foot putt on the sixteenth green. Opponent went allto little pieces. Finished one down, with a fifteen on the last hole.Queer game, golf!"

"Yes," said Waddles, breathing hard, "and a lot of queer people play it.Your honour, sir."

The Major smacked out another long one, but Waddles, boiling inside andscarcely able to see the ball, topped his tee shot and bounded into thebunker.

"You see what it does," said the Major. "You were still thinking aboutthat putt. The effect on the nerves——"

"Oh, cut it out!" growled Waddles. "Play the game right if you're goingto play it at all! Your mouth is the best club in your bag!"

The Major did not resent this in the least; paid no attention in fact.He toddled away, blatting intermittently about his friend Fitz, andWaddles knocked half the sand out of the bunker before he finallyemerged, spitting gravel and adjectives. Sore was no name for it! Helost the hole, of course, making him three down.

The rest of the contest was interesting, but only from a psychologicalpoint of view. Evidently considering that he had a safe lead the Majorcut out the conversation and the horseplay and settled down to par golf.There was no lack of talk, however, for Waddles erupted constantly.Braced by the thought that he was annoying his opponent by these verbaloutbursts, he managed to halve four holes in a row, but on the ninthgreen he missed another short putt. In the explosion that followed heblew off his safety valve completely, and the rest of the matchdegenerated into a riotous procession, so far as noise was concerned.

The thing I could not understand was that the Major held on the eventenour of his way, unruffled and serene as a June morning. The louderWaddles talked the better the old fellow seemed to like it. Never oncedid he seem disturbed; never once did he hesitate on a shot. With calm,mechanical precision he proceeded to go through Waddles like a coldbreeze, and the latter was so busy thinking up things to say that heflubbed disgracefully, and was beaten on the thirteenth green, seven andfive.

Well, Waddles may have his faults, but losing ungracefully is not one ofthem. He will fight you to the very last ditch, but once the battle isover he declares peace immediately. He walked up to the Major and heldout his hand. He grinned, too, though I imagine it hurt his face to doit.

"You're all right, Major!" said he. "You're immense! You licked me andyou made me like it. If I had your nerves—if I could concentrate on myshots and not let anything bother me——"

Several of us had dinner at the club that night, Jay offering to givethe party because of the money he had won from Waddles. When the coffeecame on, America's representative in the finals attempted to explain hisdefeat.

"The Major began the gab-fest," said Waddles. "He started off chatteringlike a magpie and trying to rattle me, and naturally I went back at himwith the same stuff. Fair for one as for the other, eh? I'll admit thathe out-generalled me by giving me that putt on the second hole, but thething that finally grabbed my angora was his infernal concentration.Never saw anything like it! Why, he actually asked me to stand behindhim and criticise his swing—while he was shooting, mind you? Asked meto do it! And when I saw that he went along steady as the rock ofGibraltar—well, I blew, that's all. I went to pieces. The thing reactedon me. I'll bet that old rascal could listen to you all day long-andnever top a ball!"

"How do you mean—lose it?" demanded Waddles, bristling. "I talked myhead off, and he didn't top any, did he?"

"No; and he didn't listen any, either. As a matter of fact, you couldhave fired a cannon off right at his hip without making him miss ashot."

"You had a fat chance of talking the old Major out of anything!" saidhe. "He hasn't advertised it much, because he's rather sensitive abouthis affliction; but he's——"

A MIXED FOURSOME

When the returns were all in, a lot of people congratulated the winnersof the mixed-foursome cups, after which the weak-minded ones sympathisedwith Mary Brooke and Russell Davidson.

Sympathy is a wonderful thing, and so rare that it should not be wasted.Any intelligent person might have seen at a glance that Mary didn't needsympathy; and as for Russell Davidson, there never was a time when hedeserved it.

And in all this outpouring of sentiment, this hand-shaking andback-patting, nobody thought to offer a kind word to old Waddles. Nobodyshook him by the hand and told him that he was six of the seven wondersof the world. It seems a pity, now that I look back on it.

Possibly you remember Waddles. He was, is, and probably always will be,an extremely important member of the Yavapai Golf and Country Club.Important, did I say? That doesn't begin to express it.Omnipotent—that's better.

To begin with, he is chairman of the Greens Committee, holding dominionover every blade of grass which grows on the course. He is intimatelyacquainted with every gopher hole, hoofprint and drain cover on the clubproperty. Policing two hundred broad acres is a strong man's job, butWaddles attends to it in his spare moments. He waves his pudgy hand andsays: "Let there be a bunker here," and lo! the bunker springs up as ifby magic. He abolishes sand traps which displease him, and creates newones. The heathen may rage, and sometimes they do, but Waddles holds onthe even tenor of his way, hearing only one vote, and that vote his own.

Then again, he is the official handicapper—another strong man'sjob—with powers which cannot be overestimated. Some handicappers aremild and apologetic creatures who believe in tempering justice withmercy and pleasing as many people as possible, but not our Waddles.

Heaven pity the wily cup hunter who keeps an improved game under coverin order that he may ease himself into a competition and clean up thesilverware!

Waddles hates a cup hunter with a deep and abiding hatred and deals withhim accordingly. There was once an 18-handicap man who waltzed blithelythrough our Spring Handicap, and his worst medal round was somethinglike 85. His fat allowance made all his opponents look silly and hetook home a silver water pitcher worth seventy-five dollars.

This was bad enough, but he crowned his infamy by boasting openly thathe had outwitted Waddles. The next time the cup hunter had occasion toglance at the handicap list he received a terrible shock.

"Waddy," said this person—and there were tears in his eyes and a sob inhis voice—"you know that I'll never be able to play to a four handicap,don't you?"

"Well," said Waddles with a sweet smile, "I don't mind telling you, instrict confidence: I cut you down to four to keep you honest."

The wretched cup hunter howled like a wolf, but it got him nothing. Heis still a four man, and if he lives to be as old as the Dingbats hewill never take home another trophy.

Not only is Waddles supreme on the golf course but he dominates theclubhouse as well. He writes us tart letters about shaking dice formoney and signs them "House Committee, per W." Really serious mattersare dealt with in letters signed "Board of Directors, per W." The oldboy is the law and the prophets, the fine Italian hand, the mailed fist,the lord high executioner and the chief justice, and if he misses youwith one barrel he is sure to get you with the other.

You might think that this would be power enough for one weak mortal. Youmight think that there are some things which Waddles would regard asbeyond his jurisdiction. You might think that the little god of lovewould come under another dispensation—you might think all these things,but you don't know our Waddles. He is afflicted with that strange maladydescribed by the immortal Cap'n Prowse as "the natural gift ofauthority," and such a man recognises no limits, knows no boundaries,and wouldn't care two whoops if he did. Come to think of it, the Kaiseris now under treatment for the same ailment.

Since I have given you some faint conception of Waddles and hischaracter I will proceed with the plain and simple tale of Mary Brooke,Bill Hawley and Russell Davidson. Beth Rogers was in the foursome too,but she doesn't really count, not being in love with any one butherself.

Ladies first is a safe rule, so we will start with Mary.My earliest recollection of this young woman dates backtwenty-and-I-won't-say-how-many-more years, at which time sheentertained our neighbourhood by reciting nursery rimes—"Twinka,twinka, yitty tar," and all the rest of that stuff.

I knew then that she was an extremely bright child for her age. Hermother told me so. I used to hold her on my lap and let her listen to mywatch, and the cordial relations which existed then have lasted eversince. She doesn't sit on my lap any more, of course, but you understandwhat I mean.

I watched Mary lose her baby prettiness and her front teeth. I watchedher pass through that distressing period when she seemed all legs andfreckles, to emerge from it a different being—only a little girl still,but with a trace of shyness which was new to me, and a look in her eyeswhich made me feel that I must be growing a bit old.

About this time I was astounded to learn that Mary had a beau. It wasthe Hawley kid, who lived on the next block. His parents had named himWilliam, after an uncle with money, but from the time he had been ableto walk he had been called Bill. He will always be called Bill, becausethat's the sort of fellow he is.

As I remember him at the beginning of his love affair Bill was somewhatof a mess, with oversized hands and feet, a shock of hair that neverwould stay put, and an unfortunate habit of falling all over himself atcritical moments. He attached himself to Mary Brooke with all theunselfish devotion of a half-grown Newfoundland pup, minus the pup'srough demonstrations of affection.

He carried Mary's books home from school, he took her to the littleneighbourhood parties, he sent her frilly pink valentines, andonce—only once—he stripped his mother's rose garden because it wasMary's birthday. It also happened to be Mrs. Hawley's afternoon toentertain the whist club, and she had been counting on those roses fordecorations. If my memory serves me, she allowed Mary to keep theflowers, but she stopped the amount of a florist's bill out of her son'sallowance of fifty cents a Week. The Hawley's are all practical people.

Mary's father used to fuss and fume and say that he hoped Bill would getover it and park his big clumsy feet on somebody else's front porch, butI don't think he really minded it as much as he pretended he did. Mrs.Brooke often remarked that since it had to be somebody she would ratherit would be Bill than any other boy in the neighbourhood. Even in thosedays there was something solid and dependable about Bill Hawley; he wasthe sort of kid that could be trusted, and more of a man at sixteen thansome fellows will ever be.

During Mary's high-school days several boys carried her books, but notfor long, and Bill was always there or thereabouts, waiting patiently inthe background. When another youngster had the front porch privilegeBill did not sulk or rock the boat, and if the green-eyed monster wasgnawing at his vitals there were no outward signs of anguish. We alwaysknew when one of Mary's little affairs was over because Bill would beback on the job, nursing his shin on Brooke's front steps and fillingthe whole block with an air of silent devotion. I suppose he grew to bea habit with Mary; such things do happen once in a while.

Then Bill went away to college, and while he was struggling for asheepskin Mary entered the débutante period. Some of the women said thatshe wasn't pretty, but they would have had a hard time proving it to ajury of men. Her features may not have been quite regular, but thegeneral effect was wonderfully pleasing; so the tabbies compromised bycalling her attractive. They didn't have a chance to say anything else,because Mary was always the centre of a group of masculine admirers, andif that doesn't prove attraction, what does?

In addition to her good looks she was bright as a new dollar—so brightthat she didn't depend entirely on her own cleverness but gave you achance to be clever yourself once in a while. Mary Brooke knew when tolisten. She listened to Waddles once, from one end of a country-clubdinner to the other, and he gave her the dead low down on the reformerin politics—a subject on which the old boy is fairly well informed. Ithink his fatherly interest in her dated from that evening—andincidentally let me say it was the best night's listening that Mary everdid, because if Waddles hadn't been interested—but that's getting aheadof the story.

"There's something to that little Brooke girl!" he told me afterward. "Asociety bud with brains! Who'd have thought it?"

Bill came ambling home from time to time and picked up the thread offriendship again. It grieves me to state that an Eastern college did notimprove his outward appearance to any marked extent. He looked nothingat all like the young men we see in the take-'em-off-the-shelf clothingads. He was just the same old Bill, with big hands and big feet and morehair than he could manage. He danced the one-step, of course—the onlydance ever invented for men with two left feet—but his conception ofthe fox trot would have made angels weep, and I never realised how muchhesitation could be crowded into a hesitation waltz until I saw Billgyrate slowly and painfully down the floor. Mary always seemed glad tosee him, though, and we heard whispers of an engagement, to be announcedafter Bill had made his escape from the halls of learning. Like most ofthe whispering done, this particular whisper lacked the vital element oftruth, but the women had a lovely time passing it along.

"There's one advantage in that kind of match—they won't have to getacquainted with each other after marriage."

"Well, now, I don't know about that. Doesn't one always find that onehas married a total stranger? Poor, dear Augustus! I thought I knew himso well, but——"

And so forth, and so on, by the hour. Give a woman a suspicion, andshe'll manage to juggle it into a certainty. Shortly before Bill'sgraduation, the dear ladies at the country club had the whole affairsettled, even to the probable date of the wedding, and of course Maryheard the glad news. Naturally, she was annoyed. It annoys any youngwoman to find the most important event of her life arranged in advanceby people who have never taken the trouble to consult her about any ofthe details.

At this point I am forced to dip into theory, because I can't say whattook place inside Mary's pretty little head. I don't know. Perhaps shewanted to teach the gossips a lesson. Perhaps she resented having ahusband pitchforked at her by public vote; but however she figured itshe needn't have made poor old Bill the goat, and she needn't havefallen in love with Russell Davidson. Waddles says it wasn't love atall—merely an infatuation; but what I'd like to know is this: How areyou going to tell one from the other when the symptoms are identical?

III

Personally, I haven't a thing in the world against Russell Davidson. Henever did me an injury and I hope he will never do me a favour. Russellis the sort of chap who is perfectly all right if you happen to like thesort of chap he is. I don't, and that's the end of the matter so far asI am concerned.

He hasn't been with us very long, and still it seems long enough. Hecame West to grow up with the country, arriving shortly before Bill'sgraduation, and he brought with him credentials which could not beoverlooked, together with an Eastern golf rating which caused Waddles tosit up and take notice.

Ostensibly Russell is in the brokerage business, but he doesn't seem towork much at it. Those who know tell me that it isn't necessary for himto work much at anything, his father having attended to that littlematter. Some of the dear ladies were mean enough to hint that Mary hadthis in mind, but they'll never get me to believe it.

At any rate the gossips soon had a nice juicy topic for conversation,and when Bill came home, wagging his sheepskin behind him, he found thefront-porch privilege usurped by a handsome stranger who seemed quite athome in the Brooke household, and, unless I'm very much mistaken,inclined to resent Bill's presence on the premises.

It just happened that I was walking up and down the block smoking anafter-dinner cigar on the evening when Bill discovered that he wasslated for second-fiddle parts again. Russell's runabout was standingin front of the Brooke place, there was a dim light in the living room,and an occasional tenor wail from the phonograph. I heard quick,thumping footsteps, a big, lumbering figure came hurrying along thesidewalk—and there was Bill Hawley, grinning at me in the moonlight.

"Attaboy!" he cried, shaking hands vigorously. "How're you? How're allthe folks? Gee, it's great to be home again! How's Mary?"

"Just got in on the Limited at five o'clock. Thought I'd surprise her.Got a thousand things to tell you. Well, see you later!"

I was finishing my cigar when Bill came out again and started slowlydown the walk. His wonderful surprise party had not lasted more thantwenty minutes. I had to hail him twice before he heard me. We took ashort walk together, and reached the end of the block before Bill openedhis mouth. On the corner Bill swung round and faced me: "Who is thatfellow?" It wasn't a question; it was a demand for information.

There wasn't a great deal I could tell him. Bill listened till I got tothe end of my string, with a perfectly wooden expression on his homelycountenance. Then for the first, last and only time he expressed hisopinion of Russell Davidson.

You may think that a grunt doesn't express an opinion, but as a matterof fact it's one of the most expressive monosyllables in any language.It can be made to mean almost anything. A ten-minute speech with a lotof firecracker adjectives wouldn't have made Bill's meaning any clearer.

The two grunts which came out of Bill's system were fairly dripping withdisapproval.

"It's a wonderful night." I felt the need of saying something. "Must bequite a relief after all that humidity in the East."

"We've made a lot of improvements out at the club. You won't know thelast nine now."

I couldn't resist the temptation of slipping a torpedo under his bows. Ithought it might wake him up a trifle.

Bill wanted to open up and say something, but he didn't know how to goabout it. He looked at me almost piteously and I felt ashamed of myself.

"I'll be going now," he mumbled. "Haven't had much sleep the last fewnights. Never sleep on a train anyway. See you later."

That was all I got out of him, but it was enough. It wasn't any of myaffair, of course, but from the bottom of my heart I pitied the big,clumsy fellow. I felt certain that Mary was giving him the worst of it,and taking the worst of it herself, but what could I do? Absolutelynothing. In life's most important game the spectators are not encouragedto sit on the side lines and shout advice to the players.

As for Bill, I think he fought it out with himself that night anddecided to return to his boyhood policy of watchful waiting. It wasn'tthe first time that he had lost the front-porch privilege, and in thepast he had won it back again by keeping under cover and giving theincumbent a chance to become tiresome. Bill declined to play thesecond-fiddle parts; he took himself out of Mary's orchestra entirely.He did not call on her any more; but I am willing to bet any sum ofmoney, up to ten dollars, that Bill knew how many times a week Russell'srunabout stood in front of the Brooke place. Five would have been a fairaverage.

Russell had things all his own way, and before long we began to hear thesame vague whisperings of a wedding, coupled with expressions ofsympathy for Bill. Bill heard those whisperings too—trust the dearladies for that—but he listened to everything with a good-natured grin,and even succeeded in fooling a portion of the female population; but hedidn't fool Waddles and he didn't fool me. Bill met Mary at dinnerparties and dances now and then, and whenever this happened the womenwatched every move that he made, and were terribly disappointed becausehe failed to register deep grief; but Bill never was the sort to wearhis heart outside his vest. Russell was very much in evidence at allthese meetings, for he took Mary everywhere, and Bill was scrupulouslypolite to him—the particular brand of politeness which makes a real manwant to fight. And thus the summer waned, and the winter season cameon—for in our country we have only two seasons—and it was in Novemberthat old Waddles finally unbuttoned his lip and informed me that youngMr. Davidson would never do.

It was in the lounging room at the country club. We had finished ourround, and I had paid Waddles three balls as usual. It never costs lessthan three balls to play with him. We were sitting by the window,acquiring nourishment and looking out upon the course. In the nearforeground Russell Davidson was teaching Mary Brooke the true inwardnessof the chip shot. He wasn't having a great deal of luck. Waddles brokethe silence by grunting. It was a grunt of infinite disgust. I searchedmy pockets and put a penny on the table.

"That fellow," said Waddles, indicating Russell with a jerk of histhumb, "gives me a pain."

"I thought Mary Brooke had some sense," complained Waddles; "but I seenow that she's like all the rest—anything with a high shine to it isgold. Now the pure metal often has a dull finish."

"Meaning Bill. He isn't much to look at, but he's on the level, and heworships the very ground she walks on. Why can't she see it?"

"Oh, Lord!" groaned Waddles. "It's one of the things that can't be done.Tell her and you'd only make matters that much worse. And I thought MaryBrooke had brains!"

There was a long break in the conversation, during which Waddles munchedgreat quantities of pretzels and cheese. Then:

"I wasn't much stuck on that Davidson person the first time I saw him!"His tone was the tone of a man who seeks an argument. "He's a goodgolfer, I admit that, but he's a cup hunter at heart, he's a rotten hardloser, and—well, he's not on the level!"

"Not at all. Listen! You know the Santa Ynez Gun Club? Well, he's joinedthat, among other things. He's a cracking good duck shot. I was downthere the other night, and we had a little poker game."

"Nothing so raw as that. Listen! Joe Herriman was in the game, andplaying in the rottenest luck you ever saw. Good hands all the time,understand, but not quite good enough. If he picked up threes he wassure to run into a straight, and if he made a flush there was a fullhouse out against him. Enough to take the heart out of any man. Finallyhe picked up a small full before the draw—three treys and a pair ofsevens. Joe opened it light enough, because he wanted everybody in, butthe only man who stayed was Davidson, who drew one card. After the drawJoe bet ten dollars for a feeler, and Davidson came back at him withthe biggest raise of the night—a cool hundred."

"Wait. The hundred-dollar bet started Joe to thinking. He had beenbumping into topping hands all the evening, and Davidson knew it.

"'If I were you,' says Davidson in a nice kind tone of voice, 'Iwouldn't call that bet. Luck is against you to-night, and I'd adviseyou, as a friend, to lay that pat hand down and forget it.'

"Joe looked at him for a long time and then he looked at his cards; yousee he'd been beaten so often that he'd lost his sense of values.

"'I've given you a tip,' says Davidson. 'I hate to see a man go upagainst a sure thing.'

"'Well,' says Joe at last, 'I guess you've done me a favour. It wasn'tmuch of a full anyway,' and he spread his hand on the table. Davidsondidn't show his cards—he pitched 'em into the discard and raked in thepot—not more than fifteen dollars outside of his hundred."

"Oh, nothing," said Waddles; "nothing, only I was dealing the next hand,and I arranged to get a flash at the five cards that Davidson tried tobury in the middle of the deck."

"Four diamonds and a spade! A four flush, that's what he had! The twosevens alone would have beaten him! And all that sympathetic talk, thatbum steer, just to cheat the big loser out of one measly pot! What doyou think of a fellow who'd do a trick like that?"

"I'd like to tell her," said Waddles thoughtfully, "but it's just one ofthe things that isn't being done this season. I'd like to give her aline on that handsome scalawag—before it's too late. I can't waltz upto her and tell her that he's bogus. There must be some other way. Buthow? How?"

Waddles sighed and attacked the cheese again. You'd hardly think that aman could get an inspiration out of the kind of cheese that our HouseCommittee buys to give away, but before Waddles left the club thatevening he informed me that a mixed-foursome tournament wouldn't be halfbad—for a change.

"You won't get many entries," said I. "You know how the men fight shy ofany golf with women in it."

"I'm giving the cups," said Waddles, and investigated the cheese bowlonce more. "Two of 'em. One male cup and one female cup. About sixteendollars they'll set me back, but I've an idea—just a sneaking,lingering scrap of a notion—that I'll get my money's worth."

And he went away mumbling to himself and blowing cracker crumbs out ofhis mouth.

Of course you know the theory of the mixed foursome. There are fourplayers, two men and two women, and each couple plays one ball. Itsounds very simple. Miss Jones and Mr. Brown are partners. Miss Jonesdrives, and it is up to Mr. Brown to play the next shot from where theball lies, after which Miss Jones takes another pop at the pill, and soon until the putt sinks. Yes, it sounds like an innocent pastime, but ofall forms of golf the mixed foursome carries the highest percentage ofdanger and explosive material. It is the supreme test of nerves andtemper, and the trial-by-acid of the disposition.

In our club there is an unwritten law that no wife shall be partneredwith her husband in a mixed-foursome match, because husbands and wiveshave a habit of saying exactly what they think about each other—apractise which should be confined to the breakfast table. There was acase once—but let us avoid scandal. She has a new husband and he has anew wife.

Waddles' mixed-foursome tournament was scheduled for a Thursday, and itwas amazing how many of the male members discovered that imperativebusiness engagements would keep them from participating in the contest.The women were willing enough to play—they always are, bless 'em!—butit was only after a vast amount of effort and Mexican diplomacy thatWaddles was able to lead six goats to the slaughter. Six, did I say?Five. Russell Davidson needed no urging.

The man who gave Waddles the most trouble was Bill Hawley. Bill waspolite about it, but firm—oh, very firm. He didn't want any mixedfoursomes in his young life, thank you just the same. More than that, hewas busy. Waddles had to put it on the ground of a personal favourbefore Bill showed the first sign of wavering.

When I arrived at the club on Thursday noon I found Waddles sweatingover the handicaps for his six couples. Now it is a cinch to handicaptwo women or two men if they are to play as partners, but to handicap awoman and a man is quite another matter, and all recognised rules go bythe board. I watched the old boy for some time, but I couldn't make heador tail of his system. Finally I asked him how he handicapped a mixedfoursome.

"With prayer," said Waddles. "With prayer, and in fear and trembling.And sometimes that ain't any good."

I noted that he had given Mary Brooke and Russell Davidson the lowestmark—10. Beth Rogers and Bill Hawley were next with 16, and the othercouples ranged on upward to the blue sky.

"Of course," I suggested, "the low handicap is something of acompliment, but haven't you slipped Davidson a bit the worst of it?"

"Not at all," growled Waddles. "He was just crazy to get into thisthing, and he wouldn't have been unless he figured to have a cinch;consequently, hence and by reason of which I've given him a mark that'llmake him draw right down to his hand. He won't play any four-flushhere." Waddles then arranged the personnel of the foursomes, and jotteddown the order in which they would leave the first tee. When I saw whichquartette would start last I offered another suggestion.

"You're not helping Bill's game any," said I. "You know that he doesn'tlike Davidson, and——"

Waddles stopped me with his frozen-faced, stuffed-owl stare. In deephumiliation I confess that at the time I attributed it to his distastefor criticism. I realise now that it must have been amazement at mystupidity.

Bill turned up on the tee at the last moment, and if he didn't like thecompany in which he found himself he masked his feelings very well.

"How do, Mary? Beth, this is a pleasure. How are you, Davidson? Ladiesfirst, I presume?"

Now a fluffy blonde is all right, I suppose, if she wears a hair net.Beth doesn't, and her golden aureole would make a Circassian womanjealous. Still, there are people who think Beth is a beauty. I more thanhalf suspect that Beth is one of them. Beth drove, and the ball plumpedinto the cross bunker.

"That's all right," Bill assured her. "I've often been in there myself.Takes a good long shot to carry that bunker."

"Better shoot to the left," advised Russell, "and go round the end ofthe bunker."

Mary stopped waggling her club to look at him. If there is anything inwhich the female of the golfing species takes sinful pride it is thelength of her drive. She likes to stand up on a tee used by the men andsmack the ball over the cross bunker. She wouldn't trade atwo-hundred-yard drive for twenty perfect approach shots. She may be awonder on the putting green, but she offers herself no credit for that.It is the long tee shot that takes her eye—the drive that skims thebunker and goes on up the course. Waddles says the proposition of sexequality has a bearing on the matter, but I claim that it is justordinary, everyday pride in being able to play a man's game, manfashion.

Coming from a total stranger, that suggestion about driving to the leftwould have been regarded as a deadly insult; coming from Russell——

"Fore!" said Mary again—and whacked the ball straight into thebunker—straight into the middle of it.

"Now, you see?" Russell was aggravated, and showed it. "If you hadchanged your stance and put that ball somewhere to the left you mighthave given me a chance to reach the green. As it is——"

He was still enlarging upon her offence as they moved away from the tee.Mary did not answer him, but she gave Beth a bright smile, as much as tosay, "What care I?" Bill trailed along in the rear, juggling a niblick,his homely face wiped clean of all expression.

There wasn't much to choose between the second shots—both lies wereabout as bad as could be—but Russell got out safely and Billduplicated the effort.

Beth then elected to use her brassy, and sliced the ball into the longgrass. Of course she had to wail about it.

"Don't you care," grinned Bill. "That's just my distance with a mashie.And as for long grass, I dote on it."

Mary was taking her brassy out of the bag when Russell butted inagain—with excellent advice, I must confess.

"You can't reach the green anyway," said he, "so take an iron and keepon the course."

There was a warning flash in Mary's eye which a wiser man would not haveignored.

"Remember you've got a partner," urged Russell. "Take an iron, there's agood girl."

The swish of the brassy cut his explanation neatly in two, and the ballwent sailing straight for the distant flag—a very pretty shot for anyone to make.

"And you," said Mary, turning accusingly to Russell, "you wanted me totake an iron!"

"Wasn't that ball straight enough to please you?" asked Mary with just atouch of malice.

"You had luck," was the ungracious response, "but it doesn't follow thatall your wooden-club shots will turn out as well. The theory of themixed foursome is to leave your partner with a chance to hit the ball."

While Mary and Russell were discussing the theory of the mixed foursomeold Bill made a terrific mashie shot out of the grass, and the ballreached the edge of the green. Beth applauded wildly, Mary chimed in,but Davidson did not open his mouth. He was irritated, and made nosecret of it, but his irritation did not keep him from dropping the nextshot on the putting green.

Bill didn't even blink when Beth took her putter and overran the hole byten feet. Beth said she knew he'd never, never speak to her again inthis world, and she couldn't blame him if he didn't.

"Well," said Bill cheerfully, "you gave the ball a chance, anyhow.That's the main thing. It's better to be over than short."

Mary then prepared to putt, Russell's approach having left her twelvefeet short of the hole. "And be sure to get it there," cautioned herpartner. "It's uphill, you know. Allow for it."

Mary bit her lip and hit the grass an inch behind the ball. It rolledsomething less than four feet.

"Hit the ball! Hit the ball!" snapped Russell angrily. "What's thematter with you to-day?"

Mary apologised profusely—probably to keep Russell quiet; and shelaughed too—a dry, hard little laugh that didn't have any fun in it.Bill glared at Davidson for an instant, and his mouth opened, but heswallowed whatever impulse was troubling him, and carefully laid hisball on the lip of the cup for a two-inch putt that not even Beth couldhave missed. Russell then holed his long one, which seemed to put him ina better humour, and the men started for the second tee. In mixedfoursomes the drive alternates.

Mary and Beth took the short cut used by the caddies, and I followedthem at a discreet distance. Mary babbled incessantly about everythingin the world but golf, which was her way of conveying the impressionthat nothing unusual had happened; and Beth, womanlike, helped her outby pretending to be deeply interested in what Mary was saying. And yetthey tell you that if women could learn to bluff they would make goodpoker players!

As I waited for the men to drive I thought of the Mary Brooke I used toknow—the leggy little girl with her hair in pigtails—and I rememberedthat in those days she would stand just so much teasing from the boys,and then somebody would be slapped—hard. Had she changed so much, Iwondered?

On the third hole Russell began nagging again, and Bill's face was astudy. For two cents I think he would have choked him. Mary tried tocarry it off with a smile, but it was a weak effort. Nothing butabsolute obedience and recognition of his right to give orders wouldsatisfy Russell.

"It's no use your telling me now that you're sorry," he scolded afterMary had butchered a spoon shot on Number Three. "You won't take advicewhen it's offered. I told you not to try that confounded spoon. A spoonis no club for a beginner."

"But—I'm not a beginner! I've been playing ever and ever so long! And Ilike that spoon."

"What do you think I entered for—exercise? Nothing to beat but a lot ofdubs—and you're not even trying!"

I lost the thread of the conversation there because Mary lowered hervoice, but she must have told the young man something for the good ofhis soul. Anyway he was in a savage frame of mind when he stepped on thefourth tee. He wanted to quarrel with some one, but it wouldn't havebeen healthy to pick on old Bill, and Russell probably realised it. Billhadn't spoken to him since the first hole, and to be thus calmly ignoredwas fresh fuel on a smouldering fire.

There was another explosion on Number Four—such a loud one thateverybody heard it.

"There you go again!" snarled Russell. "I give you a perfect drive—Ileave you in a position where all you have to do is pop a little mashieover a bunker to the green—and see what a mess you've made of it! I'msorry I ever entered this fool tournament!"

It must have been an uncomfortable situation for Beth and Bill. Theykept just as far away from the other pair as they could—an exhibitionof delicacy which I am sure Mary appreciated—and pretended not to hearthe nasty things Russell said, though there were times when Bill had tohide his clenched fists in his coat pockets. He wanted to hitsomething, and hit it hard, so he took it out on the ball, withexcellent results. And no matter what Beth did or did not do Bill neverhad anything for her but a cheery grin and words of encouragement. Theygot quite chummy, those two, and once or twice I thought I surprisedresentment in Mary's eye. I may have been mistaken.

Russell grew more rabid as the round proceeded, possibly because Mary'smanner was changing. After the seventh hole, where Russell said it was awaste of time to try to teach a woman anything about the use of a woodenclub, Mary made not the slightest attempt to placate him. Shedeliberately ignored his advice, and did it smilingly. She became verygay, and laughed a great deal—too much, in fact—and of course herattitude did not help matters to any appreciable extent. A bully likesto have a victim who cringes under the lash.

The last nine was painful, even to a spectator, and if Russell Davidsonhad been blessed with the intelligence which God gives a goose he wouldhave kept his mouth shut; but no, he seemed determined to force Mary totake some notice of his remarks. The strangest thing about it was thatsome fairly good golf was played by all hands. Even fuzzy-headed littleBeth pulled off some pretty shots, whereupon Bill cheered uproariously.I think he found relief in making a noise.

While they were on the seventeenth green I spied old Waddles againstthe skyline, cutting off the entire sunset, and I climbed the hill totell him the news. You may believe it or not, but up to that moment Ihad overlooked Waddles entirely. I had been stupid enough to think thatthe show I had been witnessing was an impromptu affair—a thing of purechance, lacking a stage manager. Just as I reached the top of the hill,enlightenment came to me—came in company with Mary's laugh, rippling upfrom below. At a distance it sounded genuine. A shade of disappointmentcrossed Waddles' wide and genial countenance.

"So it didn't work," said he. "It didn't work—and I'm sixteen dollarsto the bad. Hey! Quit pounding me on the back! Anybody but a born asswould have known the whole thing was cooked up for Mary's benefit—andyou've just tumbled, eh? Now then, what has he done?"

Briefly, and in words of one syllable, I sketched Russell's activities.Waddles wagged his head soberly.

"Treated her just the same as if he was already married to her, eh? Amixed foursome is no-o-o place for a mean man; give him rope enough andhe'll hang himself. How do they stand?"

I had not been keeping the score, so we walked down the hill to theeighteenth tee.

"Pretty soft for you folks," said Waddles with a disarming grin."Pretty soft. You've only got to beat a net 98."

"Zat so?" asked Bill carelessly, but Russell snatched a score card fromhis pocket. Instantly his whole manner changed. The sullen look left hisface; his eyes sparkled; he smiled.

"We're here in 94," said Russell. "Ten off of that—84. Why—it's acinch, Mary, a cinch! And I thought you'd thrown it away!"

"Oh," said Russell casually, "they've got a gross of 102. What's theirhandicap?"

"A net 86." Russell became thoughtful. "H'm-m. Close enough to beinteresting. Still, they've got to pick up three strokes on us here.Mary, all you've got to do is keep your second shot out of trouble. Gostraight, and I'll guarantee to be on the green in three."

Mary didn't say anything. She was watching Waddles—Waddles, with hislip curled into the scornful expression which he reserves for cuphunters and winter members who try to hog the course.

Russell drove and the ball sailed over the direction post at the summitof the hill.

"That'll hold 'em!" he boasted. "Now just keep straight, Mary, and we'vegot 'em licked!"

Bill followed with another of his tremendous tee shots—two hundredpounds of beef and at least a thousand pounds of contempt behind thepill—and away they went up the path. Russell fell in beside Mary, andat every step he urged upon her the vital importance of keeping the ballstraight. He simply bubbled and fizzed with advice, and he smiled as heoffered it. I never saw a man change so in a short space of time.

"Well, partner," apologised Beth, "I'm sorry. If I'd only played a tinybit better——"

"Shucks!" laughed Bill. "Don't you care. What's a little tin cup betweenfriends?"

"A tin cup!" growled Waddles. "Where do you get that stuff? Sterlingsilver, you poor cow!"

Bill's drive was the long one, so it was up to Mary to play first. Ourlast hole requires fairly straight shooting, because the course isparalleled at the right by the steep slope of a hill, and at the bottomof that hill is a creek bed, lined on either side by tangled brush andheavy willows. A ball sliced so as to reach the top of the incline isalmost certain to go all the way down. On the other side of the fairgreen there is a wide belt of thick long grass in which a ball mayeasily be lost. No wonder Russell advised caution.

"Take an iron," said he, "and never mind trying for distance. All weneed is a six."

"Give her an iron," countermanded Russell. "Mary, you must listen to me.We've got this thing won now——"

"Fore!" said Mary in the tone of voice which all women possess, but mostmen do not hear it until after they are married. Russell fell back,stammering a remonstrance, and Mary took her practise swings—four ofthem. Then she set herself as carefully as if her entire golfing careerdepended on that next shot. Her back swing was deliberate, the club headdescended in a perfect arc, she kept her head down, and she followedthrough beautifully—but at the click of contact a strangled howl ofanguish went up from her partner. She had hit the ball with the roundedtoe of the club, instead of the flat driving surface, and the result wasa flight almost at right angles with the line of the putting green—awretched roundhouse slice ticketed for the bottom of the creek bed. Byrunning at top speed Russell was able to catch sight of the ball as itbounded into the willows. Mary looked at Waddles and smiled—the firstreal smile of the afternoon.

Judging by the language which floated up out of the ravine it must havebeen all of that. Russell found the ball at last, under the willows andhalf buried in the sand, and the recovery which he made was nothingshort of miraculous. He actually managed to clear the top of the hill.Even Waddles applauded the shot.

Beth took an iron and played straight for the flag. Russell picked theburs from his flannel trousers and counted the strokes on his fingers.

"Hawley will put the next one on the green," said he, "and that means apossible five—a net of 91. A six will win for us; and for pity's sake,Mary, for my sake, get up there somewhere and give me a chance to laythe ball dead!"

"He's quit bossing and gone to begging," said he. "Well, if I was MaryBrooke——Holy mackerel! She's surely not going to take another shot atit with that brassy!"

But that was exactly what Mary was preparing to do. Russell pleaded, heentreated, and at last he raved wildly; he might have spared his breath.

"Cheer up!" said Mary with a chilly little smile. "I won't slice thisone. You watch me." She kept her promise—kept it with a savage hook,which sailed clear across the course and into the thick grass. The ballcarried in the rough seventy-five yards from the putting green, anddisappeared without even a bounce.

"That one," whispered Waddles, sighing contentedly, "is buried a footdeep. It begins to look bad for love's young dream. Bill, you're away."

Russell, his shoulders hunched and his chin buried in his collar,lingered long enough to watch Bill put an iron shot on the puttinggreen, ten feet from the flag. Then he wandered off into the rough andrelieved his feelings by growling at the caddie. He did not quit,however; the true cup hunter never quits. His niblick shot tore throughthat tangle of thick grass, cut under the ball and sent it spinning highin the air. It stopped rolling just short of the green.

We complimented him again, but he was past small courtesies. Our rewardwas a black scowl, which we shared with Mary.

By this time quite a gallery had gathered to witness the finish of thematch. In absolute silence Mary drew her putter from the bag and studiedthe shot. It was an absurdly simple one—a 30-foot approach over a levelgreen, and all she had to do was to leave Russell a short putt. Then ifBeth missed her ten-footer——

Even as he spoke the putter clicked against the ball, and instantly agasp of dismay went up from the feminine spectators. I was watchingRussell Davidson, and I can testify that his face turned a delicateshade of green. I looked for the ball, and was in time to see it skatemerrily by the hole, "going a mile a minute," as Waddles afterwardexpressed it. It rolled clear across the putting green before itstopped.

"Never up, never in," said she with a cheerful smile. "Russell, I'mafraid you're away."

"Did you get that stuff?" he breathed into my ear. "Did you get it? Shethrew him down—threw him down cold!"

Russell seemed to realise this, but he made a noble effort to hole theputt. A third miracle refused him, and then Beth Rogers put her ballwithin three inches of the cup.

At this point the hand-shaking began. I was privileged to hear one moreexchange of remarks between the losers as they started for theclubhouse.

"Ah!" said Mary, "you seem to forget that I've been listening to you allthe afternoon—listening and learning!"

That very same evening I was sitting on my front porch studying thestars and meditating upon the mutability of human relationships.

A familiar runabout drew up at the Brooke house, and a young man passedup the walk, moving with a stiff and stately stride. In exactly twelveminutes and thirty-two seconds by my watch the young man came out again,bounced down the steps, jumped into his car, slammed the door with abang like a pistol shot, and departed from the neighbourhood with agrinding and a clashing of gears which might have been heard for half amile.

The red tail light had scarcely disappeared down the street when bigBill Hawley lumbered across the Brooke lawn, took the front steps at abound and rang the doorbell.

Not being of an inquisitive and a prying nature, I cannot be certain howlong he remained, but at 11:37 I thought I heard a door close, andimmediately afterward some one passed under my window whistling loudlyand unmelodiously. The selection of the unknown serenader was thatpretty little thing which describes the end of a perfect day.

"SIMILIA SIMILIBUS CURANTUR"

The front porch of our clubhouse is a sort of reserved-seat section fromwhich we witness the finish of all important matches. The big wickerrocking-chairs command the eighteenth putting green, as well as theapproach to it, and when nothing better offers we watch the dubfoursomes come straggling home, herding the little white pills in frontof them.

We were doing this only yesterday—Waddles, the Bish and yourstruly—and Waddles was picking the winners and losers at a distance ofthree hundred yards. The old rascal is positively uncanny at that sortof thing; in fact, he rather prides himself on his powers ofobservation. The Bish was arguing with him, as usual. Of course he isn'treally a bishop, but he has a long, solemn ecclesiastical upper lip anda heavy manner of trundling out the most commonplace remarks, so we callhim the Bish, and there is nothing he can do about it. In justice to allparties concerned I feel it my duty to state that in every other way heis quite unlike any bishop I have ever met.

"Hello!" said Waddles, sitting up straight. "Here's the OldGuard—what's left of it, at least."

Away down to the right of the sycamore trees a single figure topped thebrow of the hill and stalked along the sky line. There was no mistakingthe long, thin legs or the stiff swing with which they moved.

"Walks like a pair of spavined sugar tongs," was Waddles' comment. "Youcan tell Pete Miller as far as you can see him."

A second figure shot suddenly into view—the figure of a small, nervousman who brandished a golf club and danced from sheer excess of emotion,but even at three hundred yards it was evident that there was no joy inthat dance. Waddles chuckled.

"Bet you anything you like," said he, "that Sam Totten sliced his teeshot into the apricot orchard. He's played about four by now—andthey're cutthroating it on the drink hole, same as they always do....About time for Jumbo to be putting in an appearance."

While he was speaking a tremendous form loomed large on the sky line,dwarfing Miller and Totten. Once on level ground this giant struck arolling gait and rapidly overhauled his companions—overhauled them inspite of two hundred and sixty pounds and an immense paunch whichswayed from side to side as he walked.

"Little Jumbo," said Waddles, sinking back in his chair. "Little Jumbo,with his bag of clubs tucked under his left arm—one driver and all ofthree irons. He carries that awful load because his doctor tells him heought to reduce. And he eats four pieces of apple pie à la mode with hislunch. But a fine old fellow at that.... Well, I notice it's still athreesome."

Waddles looked, and rose from his chair with a grunt of amazement. Afourth figure came dragging itself up the slope of the hill—theparticular portion of the slope of the hill where the deepest trouble isvisited upon a sliced second shot. Judging by his appearance and mannerthis fourth golfer had been neck-deep in grief, to say nothing of cactusand manzanita. His head was hanging low on his breast, his shoulderswere sagging, his feet were shuffling along the ground, and he trailed agolf club behind him. When a man trails a club to the eighteenth puttinggreen it is a sure sign that all is over but the shouting; and the wiseobserver will do his shouting in a whisper. Waddles sat down suddenly.

"Well, as I live and breathe and run the Yavapai Golf and Country Club!"he ejaculated, "there's my old friend, Mr. Peacock, with all his tailfeathers pulled out! The deserter has joined the colours again, and theOld Guard is recruited to full war strength once more! They've actuallytaken him back, after the way he's acted, too! Now what do you think ofthat, eh?"

"If you ask me," said the Bish in his booming chest notes, "I'd say itwas just a case ofsimilia similibus curantur."

"Nothing of the sort!" said Waddles, bristling instantly; "and besides,I don't know what you mean. Bish, when you cut loose that belly barytoneof yours you always remind me of an empty barrel rolling down the cellarstairs—a lot of noise, but you never spill anything worth mopping up.Come again with that foreign stuff."

"In this case," said he, "your word will have to be sufficient. Whileyou were hog-wrastling Cæsar's Commentaries I was down in the IndianTerritory mastering the art of driving eight mules with a jerk line. Ilearned to swear some in Choctaw and Cherokee, but that was as far as Igot. Break that Latin up into little ones. Slip it to me in plainunvarnished United States."

"Well, then," said the Bish, rolling a solemn eye in my direction,"that's the same as saying that the hair of the dog cures the bite."

"The hair of the dog," repeated Waddles, wrinkling his brow. "Thehair—of—the—dog.... H'm-m."

"The only time I ever heard that hair-of-the-dog thing mentioned," saidWaddles, "was the morning after the night before. Peacock doesn'tdrink."

"Something ailed your friend Peacock," said he, "and something curedhim. Think it over."

Slowly the light of intelligence dawned in Waddles' eyes. He began tolaugh inwardly, quivering like a mould of jelly, but the joke was toobig to remain inside him. It burst forth, first in chuckles, then insubdued guffaws, and finally in whoops and yells, and as he whooped heslapped his fat knees and wallowed in his chair.

"Why," he panted, "I saw it all the time—of course I did! It was justyour fool way of putting it! The hair of the dog—oh, say, that's rich!Make a note of that Latin thing, Bish. I want to spring it on theReverend Father Murphy!"

"Me?" said Waddles. "I'm going to do something I've never done before.I'm going to raise a man's handicap from twelve to eighteen!"

He went away, still laughing, and I looked over toward the eighteenthgreen. Pete Miller was preparing to putt, Sam Totten and Jumbo werestanding side by side, and in the background was Henry Peacock, hishands in his pockets, his cap tilted down over his eyes and his lowerlip entirely out of control. His caddie was already on the way to theshed with the bag of clubs.

"From twelve handicap to eighteen," said I. "That's more or less of aninsult. Think he'll stand for it?"

"He'll stand for anything right now," said the Bish. "Look at him! He'spicked up his ball—on the drink hole too. Give him the onceover—'mighty somnambulist of a vanished dream!'"

As far back as my earliest acquaintance with the royal and ancient game,the Old Guard was an institution of the Yavapai Golf and Country Club—afoursome cemented by years and usage, an association recognised aspermanent, a club within the club—four eighteen-handicap men, bound bythe ties of habit and hopeless mediocrity. The young golfer improves hisgame and changes his company, graduating from Class B into Class A; themiddle-aged golfer is past improvement, so he learns his limitations,hunts his level and stays there. Peter Miller, Frank Woodson, HenryPeacock and Sam Totten were fixtures in the Grand Amalgamated Order ofDubs, and year in and year out their cards would have averaged somethinglike ninety-seven. They were oftener over the century mark than belowit.

Every golf club has a few permanent foursomes, but most of them are heldtogether by common interests outside the course. For instance, we have abankers' foursome, an insurance foursome and a wholesale-groceryfoursome, and the players talk shop between holes. We even have afoursome founded on the ownership of an automobile, a jitney alliance,as Sam Totten calls it; but the Old Guard cannot be explained on anysuch basis, nor was it a case of like seeking like.

Peter Miller, senior member, is grey and silent and as stiff as his ownputter shaft. He is the sort of man who always lets the other fellow doall the talking and all the laughing, while he sits back with the air ofone making mental notes and reservations. Peter is a corporation lawyerwho seldom appears in court, but he loads the gun for the young andeloquent pleader and tells him what to aim at and when to pull thetrigger. A solid citizen, Peter, and a useful one.

Frank Woodson, alias Jumbo, big and genial and hearty, has played asMiller's partner for years and years, and possesses every human qualitythat Peter lacks. They say of Frank—and I believe it—that in all hislife he never hurt a friend or lost one. Frank is in the stock-raisingbusiness at present, and carries a side line of blue-blooded dogs. Heonce made me a present of one, but I am still his friend.

A year ago I would have set against Henry Peacock's name the words"colourless" and "neutral." A year ago I thought I knew all about him;now I am quite certain that there is something in Henry Peacock's naturethat will always baffle me. Waddles swears that Peacock was born withhis fingers crossed and one hand on his pocketbook, but that is just hisextravagant way of putting things. Henry has shown me that it ispossible to maintain a soft, yielding exterior, and yet be hard asadamant inside. He has also demonstrated that a meek man's pride is athing not lightly dismissed. I have revised all my estimates of H.Peacock, retired capitalist.

Last of all we have Samuel Totten, youngest of the Old Guard by at leasta dozen years. How he ever laughed his way into that close corporationis a mystery, but somewhere in his twenties he managed it. Sam is ahuman firebrand, a dash of tabasco, a rough comedian andcatch-as-catch-can joker. Years have not tamed him, but they havebrought him into prominence as a consulting specialist in real estateand investments. Those who should know tell that Sam Totten can park hisitching feet under an office desk and keep them there long enough toswing a big deal, but I prefer to think of him as the rather floridyoung man who insists on joining the hired orchestra and playingsnare-drum solos during the country-club dances, much to thediscomfiture of the gentleman who owns the drum. You will never realisehow poor Poor Butterfly is until you hear Sam Totten execute that melodyupon his favourite instrument.

These four men met twice a week, rain or shine, without the formality oftelephoning in advance. Each one knew that, barring flood, fire or actof God, the others would be on hand, fed, clothed and ready to leave thefirst tee at one-fifteenp.m. If one of the quartette happened to besick or out of town the others would pick up a fourth man and take himround the course with them, but that fourth man recognised the fact thathe was not of the Old Guard, but merely with it temporarily. He wasnever encouraged to believe that he had found a home.

Imagine then, this permanent foursome, this coalition of fifteen years'standing, this sacred institution, smitten and smashed by a bolt fromthe blue. And like most bolts from the blue it picked out the mostunlikely target. Henry Peacock won the Brutus B. Hemmingway Cup!

Now as golf cups go the Hemmingway Cup is quite an affair—eighteeninches from pedestal to brim, solid silver of course, engraved andscrolled and chased within an inch of its life. Mr. Hemmingway puts up anew cup each year, the conditions of play being that the trophy shallgo to the man making the best net score. A Class-B man usually wins itwith a handicap of eighteen or twenty-four and the Class-A menslightingly refer to Mr. Hemmingway's trophy as "the dub cup." Sourgrapes, of course.

I remember Mr. Peacock's victory very well; in fact, I shall neverforget it. On that particular afternoon my net score was seventy-one,five strokes under our par, and for half an hour or so I thought theHemmingway Cup was going home with me. I recall trying to decide whetherit would show to best advantage on the mantel in the living room or onthe sideboard in the dining room. Numbers of disappointed contestantsoffered me their congratulations—they said it was about time I wonsomething, even with the assistance of a fat handicap—and for half anhour I endeavoured to bear my honours with becoming modesty. Waddlesbrought the Hemmingway Cup over and put it in the middle of the table.

"'S all yours, I guess," said he. "Nobody out now but the Old Guard. Notone of them could make an 88 with a lead pencil, and that's what they'vegot to do to beat you. Might as well begin to buy."

I began to buy, and while I was signing the first batch of tags the OldGuard came marching in from the eighteenth green. Sam Totten was in thelead, walking backward and twirling his putter as a drum major twirls abaton. Frank Woodson and Peter Miller were acting as an escort ofhonour for Henry Peacock, and I began to have misgivings. I also ceasedsigning tags.

The door of the lounging room crashed open and Sam Totten entered,dragging Henry Peacock behind him. Miller and Woodson brought up therear.

"Hey, Waddles!" shouted Sam. "What do you think of this old stiff? Heshot an eighty-two; he did, on the level!"

"Sixty-four," murmured Mr. Peacock with an apologetic smile."Yes—ah—sixty-four."

"He played golf," said Peter Miller. "Kept his tee shots straight, andholed some long putts."

"Best round he ever shot in his life!" Woodson chimed in. "Won threeballs from me, but it's a pleasure to pay 'em, Henry, on account of yourwinning the cup! Who'd have thought it?"

"And we're proud of him!" cried Sam Totten. "I'm proud of him! He's mypartner! An eighty-two—think of an old stiff like him shooting aneighty-two! One foot in the grave, and he wins a cup sixteen hands highand big as a horse! Cheers, gentlemen, cheers for the Old Guard! Itdies, but it never surrenders!"

"Here," said I, thrusting the rest of the tags into Henry's limp andunresisting hand. "You sign these."

"You won the cup too, didn't you?" demanded Waddles. "Winner alwaysbuys—buys for everybody. Boy, bring the rest of those tags back hereand let Mr. Peacock sign them too. Winner always buys, Henry. That's aclub rule."

Mr. Peacock sat down at the table, put on his glasses and audited thosetags to the last nickel. After he had signed them all he picked up theHemmingway Cup and examined it from top to bottom.

"Can you beat that?" whispered Waddles in my ear. "The old piker istrying to figure, with silver as low as it is, whether he's ahead orbehind on the deal!"

"Well, boys," said Sam Totten, standing on his chair and waving hisarms, "here's to the Old Guard! We won a cup at last! Old Henry won it;but it's all in the family, ain't it, Henry? Betcher life it is! The OldGuard—drink her up, and drink her down!"

"I couldn't have been half so tickled if I'd won it myself!" said he."You see, you never won a cup before. I won one once—runner-up in thefifth flight over at San Gabriel. Nice cup, silver and all that, butyou've got to have a magnifying glass tosee it. Now this HemmingwayCup, Henry, is a regular old he cup. You can't put it where yourvisitors won't find it. You can be proud of it, old son, and we're proudof you."

"Same here," said Peter Miller, and his face twisted into somethingremotely resembling a smile. "Did my heart good to see the old boylaying those tee shots out in the middle every time. We're all proud ofyou, Henry."

Peacock didn't have much to say. He sat there smiling his tight littlesmile and looking at the silver cup. I believe that even then the ideaof desertion had entered into his little two-by-four soul. There was athoughtful look in his eyes, and he didn't respond to Totten's hilaritywith any great degree of enthusiasm.

"What was it the admiral said at Santiago?" asked Sam. "'There's gloryenough for us all!' Wasn't that it?"

"Mph!" grunted Waddles. "Since you're getting into famous remarks ofhistory, what was it the governor of North Carolina——"

"You will not!" cried Sam Totten. "I'm going to buy. Jumbo here is goingto buy. Pete is going to buy. Where do you get that bath stuff? We don'twin a cup every day, Henry. Sit down!"

An hour later Waddles emerged from the shower room, looking very muchlike an overgrown cupid in his abbreviated underwear. Henry Peacock hadbeen waiting for him. The Hemmingway Cup, in its green felt bag, dangledfrom his wrist. My locker is directly across the alley from Waddles',and I overheard the entire conversation.

"I—I just wanted to say," began Henry, "that any cut you might want tomake in my handicap will be all right with me."

Waddles growled. He has never yet found it necessary to consult a victimbefore operating on his handicap. There was a silence and then Henrytried again.

"Oh, it'll becut all right!" said Waddles cheerfully. "Don't youworry about that. Any old stiff who brings in a net of sixty-four has acut coming to him. Leave it to me!"

"Well," said Henry, "I just wanted you to know how I felt about it. I—Iwant to be quite frank with you. Of course, I probably won't shoot aneighty-two every time out"—here Waddles gasped and plumped down on thebench outside his locker—"but when a man brings in a net score that istwelve strokes under the par of the course I think some notice should betaken of it."

"Oh, you do, do you? Listen, Henry! Since we're going to be frank witheach other, what do you think your new handicap ought to be?" Waddleswas stringing him of course, but Henry didn't realise it.

"Ten!" barked Waddles. "The suffering Moses! Ten! Henry, are you sureyou're quite well—not overexcited or anything?"

"Ah!" said Waddles. "Four lemonades—and Sam Totten winked at the barboy every time. Why, if I cut you from eighteen to ten that'll put youin Class A!"

"I'll have to talk with the head bar boy," said Waddles. "He shouldn'tbe so reckless with that gin. It costs money these days. Listen to me,Henry. Take hold of your head with both hands and try to get what I say.You went out to-day and shot your fool head off. You played the bestround of golf in your long and sinful career. You made an eighty-two.You'll never make an eighty-two again as long as you live. It would be acrime to handicap you on to-day's game, Henry. It would be manslaughterto put you in Class A. You don't belong there. If you want me to cut youI'll put you down to sixteen, and even then you won't play to that markunless you're lucky."

"I think I belong at ten," said Peacock. I began to appreciate thatline about the terrible insistence of the meek.

"Get out of here!" ordered Waddles, suddenly losing his patience. "Gohome and pray for humility, Henry. Lay off the lemonade when Sam Tottenis in the crowd. Lemonade is bad for you. It curdles the intelligenceand warps the reasoning faculties. Shoo! Scat! Mush on! Vamose! Beat it!Hurry up!Wiki-wiki! Chop-chop!Schnell!"

"Might as well settle this thing right now," said Waddles to himself.Then he lifted up his voice in a howl that made the electric lightsquiver. "Send Tom in here!"

"Tom," said Waddles, "don't you know you oughtn't to slip a shot of gininto an old man's lemonade?"

"That'll do," said Waddles; and Tom went back to his work. There was along silence. By his laboured breathing I judged that Waddles was lacinghis shoes. Once more he thought aloud.

"Tom wouldn't lie to me, so it wasn't gin. Now, I wonder.... I wonder ifthat old coot has got what they call 'delusions of grandeur'?"

III

On the Monday following the contest for the Hemmingway Cup I met theBish at the country club. We arrived there between nine and ten in themorning, and the first man we saw was Mr. Henry Peacock. He was out onthe eighteenth fairway practising approach shots, and the putting greenwas speckled with balls.

"Hello!" said the Bish. "Look who's here! Practising too. You don'tsuppose that old chump is going to try to make a golfer of himself, thislate along?"

"One-club practise is all right for a beginner," said the Bish, "becausehe hasn't any bad habits to overcome, but this poor nut didn't take upthe game till he was forty, and when he learned it he learned it allwrong. He can practise till he's black in the face and it won't do himany good. Don't you think we'd better page Doc Osler and have him putout of his misery?"

It was then that I told the Bish about Henry's desire to break intoClass A, and he whistled.

"It got him quick, didn't it?" said he. "Well, there's no fool like anold fool."

Half an hour later this was made quite plain to us. Henry came into theclubhouse to get a drink of water. Now I did not know him very well, andthe Bish had only a nodding acquaintance with him, but he greeted us aslong-lost brothers. I did not understand his cordiality at first, butthe reason for it was soon apparent. Henry wanted to know whether we hada match up for the afternoon.

"I was thinking I might get in with you," said he. "What I need isthe—er—opportunity to study better players—er—get some realcompetition. Somebody that will make me do my best all the time. Don'tyou think that will help my game?"

"Doubtless," said the Bish in his deepest tone; "but at the same timeyou shouldn't get too far out of your class. There is a differencebetween being spurred on by competition and being discouraged by it."

"Good steady play," he repeated. "What a man does once he can do again.Eighty-two. Six strokes above the par of the course. My net was twelvestrokes below it—due, of course, to a ridiculously high handicap: I—Iintend to have that altered. Eighty-two is Class-A golf."

"Steady golf is never an accident," argued Henry. "I have thought it allout and come to the conclusion that what I need now is keenercompetition—er—better men to play with; and"—this with a trace ofstubbornness in his tone—"I mean to find them."

"Woodson and Totten and Miller are fine fellows," said he. "Personally Ihold them in the highest esteem, but you must admit that they are poorgolfers. Not one of them ever shot an eighty-five. I—I have my owngame to consider.... You're quite sure you won't have a vacancy thisafternoon?"

"Oh, quite," said the Bish, and Henry toddled back to his practise. Itwas well that he left us, for the Bish was on the point of an explosion.

"Well!" said he. "The conceited, ungrateful old scoundrel! Got his owngame to consider—did you hear that? Just one fair-to-middling score inhis whole worthless life, and now he's too swelled up to associate withthe fellows who have played with him all these years, stood for hislittle meannesses, covered up his faults and overlooked hisshortcomings! Keener competition, eh? Pah! Would you play with him?"

On the following Wednesday the Old Guard counted noses and found itselfshort the star member. Lacking the courage or the decency to inform hisfriends of his change of programme, Peacock took the line of leastresistance and elected to escape them by a late arrival. Sam Totten madeseveral flying trips into the locker room in search of his partner, buthe gave up at last, and at one-thirty the Old Guard drove off, athreesome.

At one-thirty-two Henry sneaked into the clubhouse and announced that hewas without a match. The news did not create any great furore. All theClass-A foursomes were made up, and, to make matters worse, the Bishhad been doing a little quiet but effective missionary work. Henry'sadvances brought him smack up against a stone wall of polite butdefinite refusal. The cup winner was left out in the cold.

He finally picked up Uncle George Sawyer, it being a matter of UncleGeorge or nobody. Uncle George is a twenty-four-handicap man, but onlywhen he is at the very top of his game, and he is deaf as a post, lefthanded and a confirmed slicer. In addition to these misfortunes UncleGeorge is blessed with the disposition of a dyspeptic wildcat, and Iimagine that Mr. Peacock did not have a pleasant afternoon. The OldGuard pounced on him when he came into the lounging room at fiveo'clock.

"Hey! Why didn't you say that you'd be late?" demanded Sam Totten. "We'dhave waited for you."

"Well, I'll tell you," said Henry—and he looked like a sheep-killingdog surprised with the wool in his teeth—"I'll tell you. The fact ofthe matter is I—I didn't know just how late I was going to be, and Ididn't think it would be fair to you——"

"Apology's accepted," said Jumbo, "but don't let it happen again. Andyou went and picked on poor old Sawyer too. You—a cup winner—pickingon a cripple like that! Henry, where do you expect to go when you die?Ain't you ashamed of yourself?"

"We've got it all fixed up to play at San Gabriel next Saturday," put inPeter Miller. "You'll go, of course?"

"I'll ring up and let you know," said Henry, and slipped away to theshower room.

I do not know what lies he told over the telephone or how he managed tosquirm out of the San Gabriel trip, but I do know that he turned up atthe country club at eleven o'clock on Saturday morning and spent twohours panhandling everybody in sight for a match. The keen competitionfought very shy of Mr. Peacock, thanks to the Bish and his whisperingcampaign. Everybody was scrupulously polite to him—some even expressedregret—but nobody seemed to need a fourth man.

"They're just as glad to see him as if he had smallpox," grinned theBish. "Well, I've got a heart that beats for my fellow man. I'd hate tosee Peacock left without any kind of a match. Old Sawyer is asleep onthe front porch. I'll go and tell him that Peacock is here looking forhim."

It has been years since any one sought Uncle George's company, and theold chap was delighted, but if Henry was pleased he managed to concealhis happiness. I learned later that their twosome wound up in a jawingmatch on the sixteenth green, in which Uncle George had all the betterof it because he couldn't hear any of the things that Henry called him.They came to grief over a question of the rules; and Waddles, whenappealed to, decided that they were both wrong—and a couple of fussyold hens, to boot.

"Just what I told him!" mumbled Uncle George, who hadn't heard a wordthat Waddles said. "The ball nearest the hole——"

"No such thing!" interrupted Henry, and they went away still squabbling.Waddles shook his head.

"He's a fine twelve-handicap man!" said he with scorn. "Doesn't evenknow the rules of the game!"

"Yes, I cut him to twelve. Ever since he won that cup he's been houndingme—by letter, by telephone and by word of mouth. He's like Tom Sawyer'scat and the pain killer. He kept asking for it, and now he's got it. Hethinks a low handicap will make him play better—stubborn old fool!"

"I don't believe it," said Waddles. "He may be all kinds of a chump, buthe wouldn't do that."

The Old Guard didn't believe it either. It must have been all of threeweeks before Totten and Woodson and Miller realised that Peacock was adeserter, that he was deliberately avoiding them. At first they acceptedhis lame excuses at face value, and when doubt began to creep in theysaid the thing couldn't be possible. One day they waited for him andbrought matters to a showdown. Henry wriggled and twisted and squirmed,and finally blurted out that he had made other arrangements. Thatsettled it, of course; and then instead of being angry or disgusted withHenry they seemed to pity him, and from the beginning to the end I amquite certain that not one of them ever took the renegade to task forhis conduct. Worse than everything else they actually missed him. It wasFrank Woodson, acting as spokesman for the others, who explained thesituation to me.

"Oh, about Henry? Well, it's this way: We've all got our littlepeculiarities—Lord knows I've a few of my own. I never would havethought this could happen, but it just goes to show how a man gets anotion crossways in his head and jams up the machinery. Henry is allright at heart. His head is a little out of line at present, but hisheart is O. K. You see, he won that cup and it gave him a wrong idea. Hereally thinks that under certain conditions he can play back to thateighty-two. I know he can't. We all know he can't; but let him go aheadand try it. He'll get over this little spell and be a good dog again."

The Bish, who was present, suggested that the Old Guard should elect anew member and forget the deserter.

"No-o," said Frank thoughtfully; "that wouldn't be right. We've talkedit over, the three of us, and we'll keep his place open for him.Confound it, man! You don't realise that we've been playing together formore than fifteen years! We understand each other, and we used to havemore fun than anybody, just dubbing round the course. The game doesn'tseem quite the same, with Henry out of it; and I don't think he's havinga very good time, hanging on the fringe of Class A and trying to butt inwhere he isn't wanted. No; he'll come back pretty soon, and everythingwill be just the same again. We've all got our little peculiarities,Bish. You've got some. I've got some. The best thing is to be charitableand overlook as much as you can, hoping that folks will treat you thesame way."

"And that," said Bish after Jumbo had gone away, "proves the statementthat a friend is 'a fellow who knows all about you and still stands foryou.' How long do you suppose they'll have to wait before that oldimbecile regains his senses?"

They waited for at least five months, during which time H. Peacock,Esquire, enrolled himself as the prize pest of the golfing world. TheClass-B men, resenting his treatment of the Old Guard, were determinednot to let him break into one of their foursomes, and the Class-A menwouldn't have him at any price. The game of pussy-wants-a-corner is allright for children, but Henry, playing it alone, did not seem to findit entertaining. He picked up a stranger now and then, but it wasn't theseason for visitors, and even Uncle George Sawyer shied when he sawHenry coming. The stubbornness which led him to insist that his handicapbe cut would not permit him to hoist the white flag and return to thefold, and altogether he had a wretched time of it—almost as bad a timeas he deserved. Left to himself he became every known variety of agolfing nut. He saved his score cards, entering them on some sort of acomparative chart which he kept in his locker—one of thosesee-it-at-a-glance things. He took lessons of the poor professional; hebought new clubs and discovered that they were not as good as his oldones; he experimented with every ball on the market; and his game wasneither better nor worse than it was before the Hemmingway Cup pouredits poison into the shrivelled receptacle which passed for HenryPeacock's soul.

One week ago last Saturday, Sam Totten staged his annual show. TottenDay is ringed with red on all calendars belonging to Class-B golfers. Itis the day when men win cups who never won cups before. All Class-A menare barred; it is strictly a Class-B party. Those with handicaps fromtwelve to twenty-four are eligible, and there are cups for all sorts ofthings—the best gross, the best first nine, the best second nine, thebest score with one hole out, the best score with two holes out, and soon. Sam always buys the big cup himself—the one for the best grossscore—and he sandbags his friends into contributing at least a dozensmaller trophies. The big cup is placed on exhibition before playbegins, but the others, as well as the conditions of award, remain undercover, thus introducing the element of the unexpected. The conditionsare made known as the cups are awarded and the ceremony of presentationis worth going a long way to see and a longer way to hear.

On Totten Day three of us were looking for a fourth man, and weencountered Henry Peacock, in his chronic state of loneliness. The Bishis sometimes a very secretive person, but he might have spared myfeelings by giving me a hint of his intentions. Henry advanced on us,expecting nothing, hoping for nothing, but convinced that there was noharm in the asking. He used the threadbare formula:

Did he! Would a starving newsboy go to a turkey dinner? Henry fell allover himself in his eagerness to accept that invitation. Any time wouldsuit him—just let him get a sandwich and a glass of milk and he wouldbe at our service. As for the making of the match, the pairing of theplayers, he would leave that to the Bish. He, Henry, was atwelve-handicap man; and he might shoot to it, and again he might not.Yes, anything would suit him—and he scuttled away toward thedining-room.

I took the Bish into a corner and spoke harshly to him. He listenedwithout so much as a twitch of his long solemn upper lip.

"All done?" said he when I had finished. "Very well! Listen to me. Itook him in with us because this is Totten Day."

"Everything. As a Class-B man he's eligible to play for those cups. Ifhe tears up his card or picks up his ball he'll disqualify himself. Iwant to make sure that he plays every hole out, sinks all his putts andhas his card turned in."

"I do," said the Bish. "Not only that, but I'm going to help him win it.That old boy hasn't been treated right. 'Man's inhumanity to man' is afrightful thing if carried to extremes. And anyway, what are you kickingabout? You don't have to play with him. I'll take him as my partner, andyou can have Dale."

When our foursome appeared on the first tee there was quite a ripple ofsubdued excitement. The news that Henry Peacock had finally broken intoClass-A company was sufficient to empty the lounging room. Totten,Miller and Woodson were present, but not in their golfing clothes. Samwas acting as field marshal, assisted by Jumbo and Pete. It was Woodsonwho came forward and patted Henry on the back.

"Show 'em what you can do, old boy!" said he. "Go out and get anothereighty-two!"

"I'll bring him home in front," said the Bish. "Of course"—here headdressed Henry—"you won't mind my giving you a pointer or two as we goalong. We've got a tough match here and we want to win it if we can."

"I'll be only too happy," chirped Henry, all in a flutter. "I needpointers. Anything you can tell me will be appreciated."

"That's the way to talk!" said the Bish, slapping him on the back andalmost knocking him down. "The only golfer who'll never amount toanything is the one who can't be told when he makes a mistake!"

Well, away we went, Dale and I driving first. Then the Bish sent one ofhis justly celebrated tee shots screaming up the course and made roomfor Henry. Whether it was the keen competition or the evident interestshown by the spectators or the fact that the Bish insisted that Henrychange his stance I cannot say, but the old man nearly missed the ballentirely, topping it into the bunker.

"Don't let a little thing like that worry you," said the Bish, takingHenry's arm. "I'll tell you how to play the next shot."

"What are you going to do with that blunderbuss?" asked the Bish. "Can'tyou play your jigger at all?"

"That's what most people would tell you, but in this case, with a goodlie and a lot of distance to make up, I'd take the jigger and pick it upclean. If you hit it right you'll get a long ball."

Now Chick Evans or Ouimet might play a jigger in a bunker and get awaywith it once in a while, but to recommend that very tricky iron to a dublike Henry Peacock was nothing short of a misdemeanour. Acting underinstructions he swung as hard as he could, but the narrow blade hit thesand four inches behind the ball and buried it completely.

"Oh, tough luck!" said the Bish. "Now for a little high-classexcavating. Scoop her out with the niblick."

Henry scooped three times, at last popping the ball over the grassywall. The Bish did not seem in the least discouraged.

"But I do!" Henry hastened to assure him. "Oh, I do! You can't imaginehow much I appreciate your correcting my mistakes!"

"Spoken like a sportsman," said the Bish, and followed at Henry's heels.By acting upon all the advice given him Henry managed to achieve thatfirst hole in eleven strokes. He said he hoped that we would believe hecould do better than that.

"Sure you can!" said the Bish with enthusiasm. "One thing about you,Peacock, you're willing to learn, and when a man is willing to learnthere is always hope for him. Never let one bad hole get your nanny."

"Aw, what's one cup, more or less?" demanded the Bish. "You'll getsomething to-day worth more than any cup. You'll get keencompetition—and advice."

Indeed that was the truth. The competition was keen enough, and theadvice poured forth in a steady stream. The Bish never left Henry alonewith his ball for an instant. He was not allowed to think for himself,nor was he allowed to choose the clubs with which to execute his shots.If he wished to use a mashie the Bish would insist on the mid-iron. Ifhe pulled the mid-iron from his bag the jigger would be placed innomination. The climax came when the Bish gravely explained that allputter shots should be played with a slight hook, "for the sake of theextra run." That was when I nearly swallowed my chewing gum.

I suggested that he ask the Bish that question; but we got nothing outof that remarkable man but a cool, impersonal stare; and for the firsttime since I have known him the Bish kept a careful record of thescores. As a general thing he carries the figures in his head—and whenyou find a man who does that you have found a golfer. Henry's scorewould have been a great memory test. It ran to eights, nines and doublefigures, and on the long hole, when he topped his drive into the bottomof the ravine and played seven strokes in a tangle of sycamore roots heamassed the astonishing total of fifteen. From time to time he bleatedplaintively, but the Bish, sticking closer than a brother, advised himto put all thought of his score out of his head and concentrate on hisshots. Henry might have been able to do this if he had been left alone,but with a human phonograph at his elbow he had no chance to concentrateon anything. He finished in a blaze of glory, taking nine on the lasthole, and the Bish slapped him violently between the shoulder blades.

"You'll be all right, Peacock, if you just remember what I've told you.The fundamentals of your game are sound enough, but you've a tendencyto underclub yourself. You must curb that. Never be afraid of gettingtoo much distance."

"I—I'm awfully obliged to you," said Henry. "I'm obliged to all yougentlemen. I hope to have the pleasure of playing with you againsoon—er—quite soon. I'm here nearly every afternoon. And anything youcan tell me——"

"Hold him in the lounging room for a while. Don't let him get away. Talkto him about his game—anything. Buy him soft drinks, but keep himthere!"

Immediately thereafter the Bish excused himself, and I heard himdemanding to know where he might come by a shingle nail.

The Totten Day cups were presented in the lounging room with the usualceremonies. Sam made the speeches and Jumbo acted as sergeant-at-arms,escorting the winners to the table at the end of the room. By selectingan obscure corner I had been able to detain Henry for a time, but whenthe jollification began he showed signs of nervousness. He spoke ofneeding a shower and was twice on the point of departure when my goodfairy prompted me to mention the winning of the Hemmingway Cup.Immediately he launched into an elaborate description of that famousvictory, stroke by stroke, with distances, direction and choice ofclubs set forth in proper order. He was somewhere on the seventh holewhen Totten made his last speech.

"So I thought it all over, and I decided it was too far for the mashieand not quite far enough for the——"

There was a loud, booming noise at the other end of the room. Over thesea of heads I caught sight of the Bish mounting a table. He had a largegreen felt bag under his arm.

"Gentlemen!" he shouted. "Gentlemen—if you are gentlemen!—I crave yourindulgence for a moment! A moment, I beg of you! I have here an addedtrophy—a trophy which I may say is unique in golfing history!"

He paused, and there was a faint patter of applause, followed by criesof "Go to it, Bish!" I glanced at Sam Totten, and the surprisedexpression on his face told me that this part of the programme was notof his making.

"All the cups presented to-day," continued the Bish, "have been awardedfor a best score of some sort. I believe you will agree with me thatthis is manifestly one-sided and unfair."

"Throw that twenty-four-handicap man out!" said the Bish. "Now the cupwhich I hold in my hands is a cup for the highest gross score ever madeby a twelve-handicap man in the United States of America."

Henry Peacock jumped as if his name had been called. If I had not laidmy hand on his arm he would have bolted for the door.

"I take great pleasure, gentlemen," said the Bish after the uproar hadsubsided, "in presenting this unique trophy to one who now has a doubledistinction. He is the holder of two records—one for the lowest netscore on record, the other for the highest gross. Mr. Henry Peacock shotthe course to-day in exactly one hundred and sixty-seven strokes....Bring the gentleman forward, please!"

There was a great burst of laughter and applause, and under cover of theconfusion Henry tried to escape. A dozen laughing members surroundedhim, and he surrendered, sputtering incoherently. He was escorted to thetable, and the double wall of cheering humanity closed in behind him andsurged forward. I caught a glimpse of his face as the Bish bent over andplaced the green bag in his hands. It was very red, and his lower lipwas trembling with rage.

Mr. Peacock cast one despairing glance to left and right and plunged hishand into the bag. I do not know what he expected to find there, but itwas a cup, sure enough—a fine, large pewter cup, cast in feebleimitation of the genuine article and worth perhaps seventy-five cents.And on the side of this cup rudely engraved with a shingle nail, was therecord of Mr. Peacock's activities for the afternoon, in gross anddetail, as follows:

As Henry gazed at this work of art a shout came from the back of theroom. Waddles had come to life.

"Bish," said Frank Woodson, "that was a rotten trick to play on anybody.You shouldn't have done it."

"A rotten case," replied the Bish, "requires a rotten remedy. It's killor cure; even money and take your pick."

Henry Peacock is once more a member of the Old Guard, in good standingand entitled to all privileges. Totten, Woodson and Miller received himwith open arms, and they actually treat the old reprobate as if nothinghad happened. I believe it will be a long time before he reminds themthat he once shot an eighty-two, and a longer time before he breaks aninety.

A CURE FOR LUMBAGO

Colonel Jimmy threatens to resign from the club. He says it was sharppractice. Archie MacBride says it wasn't half as sharp as the lumbagotrick which the Colonel worked on him as well as several of the otheryoung members. Colonel Jimmy Norman is one of the charter members of ourgolf club. He is about as old as Methuselah and he looks it. That iswhat fools people. It doesn't fool the handicap committee, though.They've got the Colonel down to 8 now and he hasn't entered a clubcompetition since for fear they'll cut him to 6. Respect for age is afine thing, I admit, but anybody who can step out and tear off 79's and80's on the Meadowmead course—72 par and a tough 72 at that—isn'tentitled to much the best of it because he can remember the Civil Warand cast his first vote for Tilden.

Mind you, I don't say that Colonel Jimmy shoots 79's every day, but heshoots 'em when he needs 79's to win, and that's the mark of a realgolfer. And bet? The old pirate will bet anything from a repainted golfball to a government bond. He has never been known to take his clubs outof the locker without a gamble of some sort. The new members pay all theexpenses of Colonel Jimmy's golfing, as well as the upkeep of hislimousine—the old members are shy of him—and the way he can nurse avictim along for months without letting him win a single bet is nothingshort of miraculous. I ought to know, for I am one of Colonel Jimmy'sgraduates, and, while I never beat him in my life, he always left mewith the impression that I would surely rook him the next time—if I hadany luck. Somehow I never had the luck.

Colonel Jimmy has the gentle art of coin separation down to an exactscience. Perhaps this is because he made his money in Wall Street andapplies Wall Street methods to his golf. After every match he waitsaround until he collects. He always apologises for taking the money andsays that he hopes you'll be on your game the next time.

The Colonel is a shrewd judge of how far he can go in shearing a lamb,and when he sees signs that the victim is getting bare in spots and isabout ready to stop betting with him, he cleans up all the spare fleecewith the lumbago trick. I'll never forget how he worked it on me. I hadbeen betting him five and ten dollars a match and winning nothing butsympathy and advice and I was about ready to quit the Colonel as a poorinvestment.

The next time I went out to the club I found Colonel Jimmy sitting onthe porch in the sun and I heard him groan even before I saw him.Naturally I asked what was the matter.

"Oh, it's this cursed lumbago again! I must have caught cold after myshower the other night and—ouch!—just when I'd been looking forward toa nice little game this afternoon, too! It's a real pleasure to playwith a young man like you who—ouch! O-o-o!"

After a while he began to wonder whether light exercise would do him anygood. I thought it might and he let me persuade him. If I would give himmy arm as far as his locker—ouch!

All the time he was dressing he grunted and groaned and rubbed his backand cursed the lumbago bitterly. He said it was the one thing the devildidn't try on Job because it would have fetched him if he had. Heworried some because he would have to drive with an iron, not being ableto take a full swing with a wooden club. Then when he had me all ribbedup properly, he dropped a hint where I couldn't help but stumble overit.

"You have always named the bet," said Colonel Jimmy. "Don't takeadvantage of my condition to raise it beyond reason."

Up to that time the idea of making a bet with a cripple hadn't occurredto me. It wouldn't have seemed fair. I got to thinking about the fivesand the tens that the old rascal had taken away from me when theadvantage was all on his side and—

"I suppose I shouldn't expect mercy," said Colonel Jimmy, fitting hisremarks to my thought like a mind reader. "I have been quite fortunatein winning from you, William, when you were not playing your best. Thisseems an excellent opportunity for you to take revenge. This cursedlumbago——"

The match was finally made at five dollars a hole, and if I hadn't beenashamed of taking advantage of a cripple I would have said ten.

Colonel Jimmy whined a little and said that in his condition it wasalmost a shame for me to raise the bet to five dollars a hole and thathe couldn't possibly allow me any more than five strokes where before hehad been giving me eight and ten. He said he probably wouldn't get anydistance off the tees on account of not being able to take a full swing,and I agreed on the basis of five strokes, one each on the five longestholes.

I went out to the professional's shop to buy some new balls. DavidCameron is a good club maker, but a disappointing conversationalist. Hesays just so much, and then he stops and rubs his left ear. I told Davidthat I had caught Colonel Jimmy out of line at last and would bring himhome at least six or seven down.

"Ay," said David. "He'll be havin' one of his attacks of the lumba-agoagain, I'm thinkin'. Ye've raised the bet?"

I admitted that the bet had been pressed a little. "Ye're not gettin' asmany str-rokes as usual?"

I explained about the Colonel's not being able to take a full swing withhis wooden clubs.

"I'm thinkin'," said David, "that ye'll not have noticed that theclimate hereabouts is varra benefeecial to certain for-rms o' disease.I've known it to cure the worst case o' lumba-ago between the clubhousean' the fir-rst tee. The day o' meeracles is not past by ony means,"concluded David, rubbing his ear hard.

I suspected then that I had a bad bet. I was sure of it when I sawColonel Jimmy pulling his driver out of the bag on the first tee.

"I thought you said you'd have to drive with an iron." I reminded him ofit anyway.

"I might as well try the wood," said Colonel Jimmy. "I'll have toshorten up my swing some and I suppose I'll top the ball."

He groaned and he grunted when he took his practice swing, and said thathe was really afraid he'd have to call the bet off, but when he hit theball he followed through like a sixteen-year-old, and it went sailingdown the middle of the course, a good 200 yards—which is as far asColonel Jimmy ever drives.

"Well, I'll declare!" he crowed. "Look at that ball go! I had no idea Icould do it! And with this lumbago too!"

There's no use in prolonging the agony with a detailed account of thematch. The old shark was out for the fag end of the fleece crop so faras I was concerned, and he surely gave me a close clip. He made a 79that day and I had to hand him my check for forty dollars. It might nothave been so much, only on every tee the Colonel whined about hislumbago and got me in such a state of mind that I couldn't keep my eyeon the ball to save my life.

When we got back to the clubhouse, David Cameron was sitting in the doorof his shop, rubbing his left ear thoughtfully. He knew it wouldn't havebeen safe for him to ask about the match. Colonel Jimmy, confound him,blatted right along, apologising to me for playing "better than he knewhow" and all that sort of rot. He said he hoped we could have anothermatch soon, and perhaps I was a little crusty with him. At any rate hewas satisfied that my forty-dollar check was the last contribution hewould ever get from me, and he took up with Archie MacBride, who hadjust joined the club and was learning the game.

Archie hails from out West somewhere and he has the Eastern agency for alot of stuff manufactured in Chicago. In the beginning he didn't knowany of the younger members at Meadowmead and that made it easy for theColonel to take him under his wing. The old rascal has rather a pleasantmanner—in the clubhouse at least—and he talked Chicago to Archie—whata wonderful city it is and all that stuff. He talked the same way to meabout Cincinnati.

I watched the shearing proceed to the lumbago stage, but I didn'tinterfere. In the first place, it wasn't any of my business. In thesecond, I hadn't been introduced to MacBride. And, besides, I had a sortof curiosity to know how he would act when he was stung. He looked morelike a goat than a lamb to me.

One day I was sitting on the porch and MacBride came out of the lockerroom and sat down beside me. Colonel Jimmy was over on the extra green,practicing sidehill putts. Somehow we drifted into conversation.

"Darned peculiar! I don't know but that the grand jury ought toinvestigate 'em. If you shoot 110 at him, he's just good enough to win.If you make a 90, he's still good enough to win. He's always good enoughto win. The other day I came out here and found him all doubled upwith——"

"Both members of the same lodge!" said he. "I feel better now. He nickedme for an even hundred. What did he get you for?"

Nothing cements a friendship like a common grievance. We had both beenrooked by the lumbago trick and we fell to discussing the Colonel andhis petty larceny system of picking on the new members.

"Far be it that I should squeal," said Archie. "I hope I'm a good loseras far as the money goes, but I hate to be bunkoed. I handed over onehundred big iron dollars to that hoary old pirate—and I smiled when Idid it. It hurt me worse to smile than it did to part with thefrog-skins, but I wanted the Colonel to think that I didn't suspect him.I want him to regard me as a soft proposition and an easy mark becausesome day I am going to leave a chunk of bait lying around where that oldcoyote can see it. If he gobbles it—good night. Yes, sir, I'm going toslip one over on him that he'll remember even when they begin giving himthe oxygen."

"He'll never be trimmed anywhere else. It's the only game he plays. Ifhe sticks around this club, I'll introduce him to the Chicago method oftaking the bristles off a hog. I'm not sure, but I think it's done witha hoe."

"Don't be too sure of that. By the way, my name's MacBride. What'syours?... If you don't mind, I'll call you Bill for short. We will nowvisit the nineteenth tee and pour a libation on the altar of friendship.We will drink success to the Chicago method of shearing a hog. Simple,effective, and oh, so painful!"

Colonel Jimmy picked up a new pupil after Archie quit him and Archiepaired off with me. We played two or three times a week and often raninto the Colonel on the porch or in the locker room. The old reprobatewas always cordial in his cat-and-canary way—infernally cordial. Icouldn't resist the temptation to inquire after his lumbagooccasionally, but it was next to impossible to hurt his feelings. Theold fellow's hide was bullet proof and even the broadest sort of hintwas lost on him. Archie was more tactful. He used to joke the Colonelabout a return match, but he was never able to fix a date. The Colonelwas busy anyway. His latest victim was a chinless youth fromPoughkeepsie with money to burn and no fear of matches.

One afternoon Archie brought a friend out to the club with him—animmense big chap with hands and feet like hams. Everything about himwas beyond the limit. He was too beefy to begin with, though I supposethat wasn't his fault. He wore a red tie and a yellow vest. He talkedtoo much and too loud. Archie introduced him to me as Mr. Small ofChicago.

"Mr. Small is an old friend of mine," said Archie. "He is taking a shortvacation and I am putting him up at the club for a week or ten days. Hedoesn't look it, but his doctor says he needs exercise."

"Yeh," said Small, "and while I'm resting I think I'll learn this foolgame of golf. Think of a big fellow like me, whaling a poor little pillall over the country! I suppose all there is to it is to hit the blamedthing."

Colonel Jimmy was sitting over by the reading table and I saw him prickup his ears at this remark. He always manages to scrape an acquaintancewith all the beginners.

"I can remember," said he, "when people who played golf were supposed tobe a little queer upstairs. Cow-pasture pool, we used to call it. It's agood deal like shinny-on-your-own-side, ain't it?"

Archie took him out to David to get him outfitted with clubs and things,left Small in the shop, and came back to explain matters to me.

"You mustn't mind Small's manner," said he. "He's really one of the bestfellows in the world, but he's—well, a trifle crude in spots. He'snever had time to acquire a polish; he's been too busy making money."

"Excuse me"—Colonel Jimmy had been listening—"but is he in any wayrelated to the Caspar Smalls of Chicago and Denver?"

"Barrels, my dear boy, barrels. Crude oil is his line at present. Andonly thirty-five years of age too. He's a self-made man, Small is."

I couldn't think of anything to say except that he must have had a deuceof a lot of raw material to start with—and if I put the accent on theraw it was unintentional.

When you can't think of anything else to say for a man, you can alwayssay that his heart is in the right place. It sounds well, but it doesn'tmean anything. Archie proposed that we should let Small go around withus that afternoon. I didn't like the idea, but, of course, I kept mum;the man was Archie's guest.

Small got in bad on the first tee. I knew he would when I saw who wasahead of us—Colonel Jimmy and the chinless boy. Like most elderlymechanical golfers, the Colonel is a stickler for the etiquette of thegame—absolute silence and all that sort of thing.

Archie introduced Small to the Colonel and the Colonel introduced us tothe chinless boy, who said he was charmed, stepped up on the tee andwhacked his ball into the rough.

While the Colonel was teeing up, Small kept moving around and talking inthat megaphone voice of his. Colonel Jimmy looked at him rathereloquently a couple of times and finally Small hushed up. The Coloneltook his stance, tramped around awhile to get a firm footing, addressedthe ball three times, and drew his club back for the swing. Just as itstarted downward, Small sneezed—one of those sneezes with an Indian warwhoop on the end of it—"Aa-chew!" Naturally Colonel Jimmy jumped, tookhis eye off the ball and topped it into the long grass in front of thetee.

"I certainly intend to!" snapped the Colonel, glaring at Small."You—you spoiled my swing, sir!"

Small laughed at the top of his voice. "Haw! Haw! That's rich! Why, I'veseen Heinie Zimmerman hit a baseball a mile with thirty thousand peopleyelling their heads off at him!"

"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, "when you are through with yourdiscussion, I would really like to drive."

III

I played with Small all the afternoon without yielding to an impulse toslay him with a niblick, which speaks volumes for my good disposition.It was a harrowing experience. Small proceeded on the usual theory ofthe beginner, which is to hit the ball as hard as possible and trust toluck. The most I can say for his day's play is that I never expect tosee golf balls hit any harder. His wooden club shots hooked and slicedinto the woods on either side of the course—he bought a dozen balls tobegin with and was borrowing from us at the finish—he dug up greatpatches of turf on the fair greens, he nearly destroyed three bunkersand after every shot he yelled like a Comanche.

We caught up with Colonel Jimmy at the eighteenth tee. The Colonel wasin a better humour and was offering to give the chinless boy a strokeand play him double or quits on the last hole—sure proof that he hadhim badly licked. The chinless boy took the bet.

"Now, there's some sense to that!" said Small. "I never could play anygame for fun. Make it worth while, that's what I say! Archie, I'll betyou a hundred that I beat you this hole!"

Colonel Jimmy was picking up a handful of sand from a tee. He droppedit and began to clean his ball.

They had quite a jawing match and finally Archie said that he would betSmall ten dollars.

"Huh!" said Small. "I wouldn't exert myself for a measly ten spot. Makeit twenty-five!"

"You'll give me nothing!" said Small. "What do you think I am? I'll playyou even and lick you." And he was so nasty about it that Archie had toagree.

The Colonel turned around after he played his second shot to watch usdrive. Small took a tremendous swing and hooked the ball over the fenceand out of bounds. He borrowed another and sliced that one into thewoods. When he finally sunk his putt—he took 17 for the hole and thatwasn't counting the ones he missed—he dug up a wallet stuffed withcurrency and insisted on paying Archie on the spot.

Colonel Jimmy, waiting on the porch, was an interested witness. In lessthan five minutes by the watch the chinless boy was sitting over in acorner, alone with a lemonade, and the Colonel had Small by thebuttonhole, talking Chicago to him. I have always claimed that ColonelJimmy has all the instincts of a wolf, but perhaps it is only his WallStreet training that makes him so keen when a lamb is in sight.

"Yes, Chicago is a live town all right," said Small, "but about thisgolf proposition, now: I'm getting the hang of the thing, Colonel. If Ididn't lose so many balls——"

"You have a fine, natural swing," said the Colonel in a tone soft ascorn silk. "A trifle less power, my friend, and you will get betterdirection."

Well, it was too much for me. I didn't care much for Small, but I hatedto see him walk into ambush with his eyes open. I left him and theColonel hobnobbing over their highballs, and went into the locker room,where I found Archie.

"Look here!" I said. "That old pirate is after your friend. ColonelJimmy heard Small make that fool bet on the eighteenth tee, and you knowwhat a leech he is when soft money is in sight. He's after him."

"Don't be more of an ass than usual, Archie. The Colonel has got him outthere, telling him about Chicago. You know what that means, and a fellowthat bets as recklessly as Small does——"

"Bill," said Archie, "I've made it a rule never to open my mouth in anygambling game unless my money was on the table. Understand? Then,whatever happens, there's no come-back at me. Think it over."

"Exactly. He's my guest. If you see fit to warn him——" Archie shruggedhis shoulders.

Well, what could I say after that? I took my shower bath and dressed.Then I went into the lounging room. Small was, if anything, a triflenoisier than ever.

"Any game that I can bet on is the game for me," said he, "but I hate apiker. Don't you hate a piker, Colonel?"

"A man," said Colonel Jimmy, "should never bet more than he can affordto lose—cheerfully."

"Cheerfully. That's the ticket! You're a sport, Colonel. I can see it inyour eye. You don't holler when you lose. Now, Colonel, what would youconsider a good stiff bet, eh? How high would you go? This kindergartenbusiness wouldn't appeal to either one of us, would it? You wait till Igo around this course a few times and I'll make you areal bet—onethat will be worth playing for, eh? What's the most you ever played for,Colonel?" It was like casting pearls before swine and he wasn't myguest, but I did what I could for him.

"Mr. Small," said I, "if you're going in to town there's room in my carfor you."

"Thanks. I'm stopping here at the club. Archie fixed me up with a room.The Colonel is going to stay and have dinner with me, ain't you,Colonel? Surest thing you know! He's met a lot of friends of mine outWest. Small world, ain't it? Going, eh? Well, behave yourself!... Nowthen, Colonel, gimme a few more days of this cow-pasture pool and I'llshow you what a real bet looks like!"

I left the wolf and the lamb together, and I don't mind admitting that Iliked one as well as the other.

Business took me out of town for ten days, and when I returned home Iwas told that Archie had been telephoning me all the morning. I rang himat his office.

"Oh, hello, Bill! You're back just in time for the big show.... Eh? Oh,Colonel Jimmy is due for another attack of lumbago this afternoon....Small telephoned me last night that he was complaining a little.... Thegoat? Why, Small, of course! The chinless boy is playing alone thesedays; better pickings elsewhere.... Yes, you oughtn't to miss it. Seeyou later. 'Bye."

Now, very little happens at Meadowmead, in the clubhouse or on thelinks, without David Cameron's knowledge. The waiters talk, the stewardgossips, the locker-room boys repeat conversations which they overhear,and the caddies are worse than magpies. David, listening patiently andrubbing his ear, comes by a great deal of interesting information. Ifelt certain that he would have a true line on the wool market. I foundhim sitting in front of his shop. He was wearing a collar and tie, whichis always a sign that he is at liberty for the afternoon. "You'redressed up to-day, David," said I.

"Ay, a money match. The ter-rms were agreed on at eleven this mornin'.The Cur-rnel is gruntin' an' groanin' with the lumba-ago again. MusterSmall has taken a cruel advan-take of the auld man. A cruel advantage."

"Ay. Posted in the safe. Muster Small wanted to make it for two. It wasa compr-romise."

"Do ye ken, Muster Bell," said he at last, "that's precisely what I'mthinkin' it is mysel'—juist highway robbery."

"None. Muster Small wouldna listen to it. He said the Cur-rnel wasa'ready handicapped wi' auld age, lumba-ago, an' cauld feet. His remarkswere quite personal, ye'll understand, an' he counted down the notes onthe table an' blethered an' howled an' reminded the Cur-rnel that he hadlost three hunder to him the last week. The auld gentleman was fairbe-damned an' bullied into makin' the match, an' he was in such atowerin' rage he could scarce write a check.... Ay, I'm thinkin' it willbe a divertin' match to watch."

Archie arrived just as Small and Colonel Jimmy started for the firsttee. We formed the gallery, with David Cameron trailing alongunobtrusively in the rear, sucking reflectively on a briar pipe. TheColonel gave us one look, which said very plainly that he hoped we wouldchoke, but thought better of it and dropped back to shake hands andexplain his position in the matter.

Colonel Jimmy had the grace to blush; I wouldn't have believed he knewhow. I suppose if you should catch a wolf in a sheepfold the wolf wouldblush too—not because he felt that he was doing anything wrong by hisown standards, but because of the inferences that might be drawn fromthe wool in his teeth. The Colonel didn't in the least mind preying onlambs, but he hated to have a gallery catch him at it. He hastened toexplain that it was all the lamb's fault.

He said that he found himself in an unfortunate situation because he hadallowed his temper to get away from him and had "answered a foolaccording to his folly." He blamed Small for forcing him into a positionwhere he might falsely be accused of taking an unfair advantage. Hewhined pitifully about his lumbago—the worst attack he remembered—andearnestly hoped that "the facts would not be misrepresented in any way."He also said that he regretted the entire incident and had offered tocall off the match, but had been grossly insulted and accused of havingcold feet.

"It isn't that I want the man's money," said he, "but I feel that heshould have a lesson in politeness!"

On the whole, it was a very poor face for a wolf to wear. He groanedsome more about his lumbago, which he said was killing him by inches,and went forward to join Small on the tee.

"The old pirate!" said Archie. "He wasn't counting on any witnesses, andour being here is going to complicate matters. Did you get what he saidabout hoping the facts would not be misrepresented? He's wondering whatwe'll tell the other members, and for the looks of the thing he won'tdare rook Small too badly. Our being here will force him to make thematch as close as he can."

Small came over to us while the Colonel was teeing his ball. He lookedbigger and rawer than ever in white flannel, and he didn't seem in theleast worried about his bet. He was just as offensive as ever, and Icould appreciate the Colonel's point about giving him a lesson inpoliteness.

As early as the first hole it became evident—painfully so—that ColonelJimmy was out to make the match a close one at any cost. It would neverdo to give Small the impression that his pockets had been picked. Inorder to make him think that he had had a run for his money, the Colonelhad to play as bad golf as Small—and he did it, shades of Tom Morrisand other departed golfers, he did it!

Bad golf is a depressing spectacle to watch, but deliberately bad golf,cold-blooded, premeditated and studied out in advance, is a crime, andthat is the only word which fits Colonel Jimmy's shameless exhibition.His only excuse was that it needed criminally bad golf to make the matchseem close. The old fellow's driving was atrocious, he slopped andflubbed his iron shots in a disgusting manner, and his putting wouldhave disgraced a blind man. Lumbago was his alibi, and he worked itovertime for our benefit. After every shot he would drop his club, claphis hands on his back, and groan like an entire hospital ward.

The only noticeable improvement in Small's playing was that he managedsomehow or other to keep his ball on the course, though the lopsided,thumb-handed, clubfooted way he went at his shots was enough to makeangels weep. Then, too, he didn't have so much to say and didn't yellafter he hit the ball.

Thirteen holes they played, and I venture the statement that nothinglike that match has ever been seen since the time when golf balls werestuffed with feathers. By playing just as badly as he knew how, gettinginto all the bunkers, and putting everywhere but straight at the cup,Colonel Jimmy arrived on the fourteenth tee all square with Small. Theyhad each won two holes; the others had been halved in scandalousfigures.

I could tell by the way the Colonel messed the fourteenth hole that hewanted to halve that too. He certainly didn't try to win it. Small'sfifth shot was in the long grass just off the edge and to the right ofthe putting green. Colonel Jimmy laid his sixth within three feet of thecup.

"Boy, give me that shovel!" said Small, and the caddie handed him aniblick. It wasn't really a bad lie, but the ball had to be chopped outof three inches of grass.

"In a case of this kind," said Small, "I guess you trust to luck, what?"He played a short chop shot and the ball went hopping toward the pin,hit the back of the cup with a plunk, and dropped for a six. Of courseit was a pure accident.

I knew then that the comedy was over for the day. Four holes remained tobe played, and the Colonel was one down. It was never his policy toleave anything to chance. He would run the string out at top speed.David Cameron came up from the rear.

Our Number Fifteen is 278 yards long, over perfectly level ground. Thereare bunkers to the right and left of the putting green and a deep sandtrap behind it. It is a short hole, but the sort of one which needsstraight shooting and an accurate pitch. Of all the holes on the course,I think it is the Colonel's favourite.

"My honour, eh?" said Small. "That being the case, I guess I'll just rapit out of the lot!"

He didn't bother to measure the distance or take a practice swing. Hedidn't even address the ball. He walked up to it and swung his driverexactly as a man would swing a baseball bat—tremendous power but noform whatever—and the wonder is that he hit it clean. A white speckwent sailing up the course, rising higher and higher in the air. Whenthe ball stopped rolling it was 260 yards from the tee and on a directline with the pin.

Colonel Jimmy didn't say anything, but he grunted whole volumes. Ittakes more than a long drive to rattle that old reprobate. He whippedhis ball 200 yards down the course and stepped off the tee so wellsatisfied with himself that he forgot to groan and put his hands on hisback. Small laughed.

"I—I may be limbering up a bit," said the Colonel. "The long driveisn't everything, you know; it's the second shot that counts!"

Colonel Jimmy studied his lie for some time and went through all themotions, but when the shot came it was a beauty—a mashie pitch whichlanded his ball five feet from the cup.

"I'll just do that thing!" said Small. And he did. Of course he had ashort approach, as approaches go, but even so I was not prepared to seehim play a push shot and rim the cup, leaving his ball stone dead for athree. Colonel Jimmy was not prepared to see it either, and I havereason to believe that the push shot jarred the old rascal from hisrubber heels upward. He went about the sinking of that five-foot puttwith as much deliberation as if his thousand dollars depended on it. Hesucked in his breath and got down on all fours—a man with lumbagocouldn't have done it on a bet—and he studied the roll of the turf fora full minute—studied it to some purpose, for when he tapped the ballit ran straight and true into the cup, halving the hole.

"You're getting better every minute!" said Small. "I'm some littlelumbago specialist, believe me!"

Colonel Jimmy didn't answer, but he looked thoughtful and just the leastmite worried. One down and three to go for a thousand dollars—it's asituation that will worry the best of 'em.

Number Sixteen was where the light dawned on me. It is a long, trickyhole—bogey 6, par 5—and if the Colonel hadn't made another phenomenalapproach, laying his ball dead from fifty yards off the green, Smallwould have won that too. They halved in fives, but it was Small's secondshot that opened my eyes. He used a cleek where most players would try abrassie, and he sent the ball screaming toward the flag—220 yards—andat no time was it more than ten feet from the ground. I was behind himwhen he played, and I can swear that there wasn't an inch of hook orslice on that ball. The cleek is no club for a novice. I remembered theniblick shot on the fourteenth. That was surely a fluke, but how aboutthe push shot on fifteen? English professionals have written whole booksabout the push shot, but mighty few men have ever learned to play it.Putting that and the cleek shot together, the light broke in on me—andmy first impulse was to kick Archie MacBride.

I don't know who Colonel Jimmy wanted to kick, but he looked as if hewould relish kicking somebody. He had been performing sums in mentaladdition, too, and he got the answer about the same time that I did.

"Yes," snapped the old man, "but it's a lot queerer the way you'vepicked up this game in the last two holes!"

"Well," and Small laughed, "you remember that I warned you I never couldplay for piker money, Colonel—that is, not verywell."

Colonel Jimmy gave him a look that was all wolf—and cornered wolf atthat. He answered Small with a nasty sneer.

"So you can't play well unless big money is bet, eh? That is exactlywhat I'm beginning to think, sir!"

"At any rate," said Small, "I've cured your lumbago for you, Colonel.You can charge that thousand to doctor bills!"

Colonel Jimmy gulped a few times, his neck swelled and his face turnedpurple. There wasn't a single thing he could find to say in answer tothat remark. He started for the seventeenth tee, snarling to himself. Icouldn't stand it any longer. I drew Archie aside.

"Why, about Small—if that's his name. What have you done? Rung in aprofessional on the old man?"

"Professional, your grandmother!" said Archie. "Small is an amateur ingood standing. Darned good standing. If the Colonel knew as much aboutthe Middle West as he pretends to know, he'd have heard of Small.Wonder how the old boy likes the Chicago method of shearing a pig?"

The old boy didn't like it at all, but the seventeenth hole put thecrown on his rage and mortification. Small drove another long straightball, and after the Colonel had got through sneering about that hetopped his own drive, slopped his second into a bunker, and reached thegreen in five when he should have been there in two. I thought the agonywas over, but I didn't give Small credit for cat-and-mouse tendencies.

"In order to get all the good out of this lumbago treatment," said he,"it ought to go the full eighteen holes." Then, with a deliberation thatwas actually insulting, he played his second shot straight into a deepsand trap. I heard a queer clucking, choking noise behind me, but it wasonly David Cameron doing his best to keep from laughing out loud.

"Muster Small is puttin' the shoe on the other foot!" said David. "Ay,it's his turn to waste a few now."

"Cheer up, Colonel!" said Small. "You fooled away a lot of shots earlyin the match—on account of your lumbago, of course. I'm just asgenerous as you are when it comes to halving holes with an easy mark."To prove it Small missed a niblick shot a foot, but pitched out on hisfourth, and, by putting all over the green, finally halved the hole.

When Small stood up on the eighteenth tee for his last drive he lookedover at the Colonel and nodded his head. "Colonel?" said he.

"So I've heard," said Small. "I'll make you a business proposition,Colonel. Double or quits on the last hole? I understand that's what youdo when you're sure you can win. Two thousand or nothing?... No? Oh, allright! No harm done, I suppose?"

Colonel Jimmy had a burglar's chance to halve the match by winning thelast hole, and he fought for it like a cornered wolf. They were both onthe green in threes, Small ten feet from the cup and the Colonel atleast fifteen. If he could sink his putt and Small should miss his, thematch would be square again.

The old man examined every blade of grass between his ball and the hole.Three times he set himself to make the putt, and then got down to takeanother look at the roll of the green—proof that his nerve was breakingat last. When he finally hit the ball it was a weak, fluttering stroke,and though the ball rolled true enough, it stopped four feet short ofthe cup.

"Never up, never in!" said Small. "Well, here goes for thethousand-dollar doctor bill! Lumbago is a very painful ailment, Colonel.It's worth something to be cured of it." Colonel Jimmy didn't say aword. He looked at Small and then he turned and looked at MacBride. Allhis smooth and oily politeness had deserted him; his little tricks andhypocrisies had dropped away and left the wolf exposed—snarling andshowing his teeth. I thought that he was going to throw his putter atArchie, but he turned and threw it into the lake instead—into themiddle, where the water is deep. Then he marched into the clubhouse,stiff as a ramrod, and so he missed seeing Small sink his ten-foot putt.

"Come out to the shop," said the professional. He showed me a list ofthe players rated by the Western Golf Association. A man by the name ofSmall was very close to the top—very close indeed.

We don't know whether the Colonel is going to lay the case before thecommittee or not. If he does, we shall have to explain why he has nothad an attack of lumbago since.

THE MAN WHO QUIT

Mr. Ingram Tecumseh Parkes squinted along the line of his short putt,breathed hard through his prominent and highly decorative nose,concentrated his mighty intellect upon the task before him, and tappedthe small white ball ever so lightly. It rolled toward the cup, waveredfrom the line, returned to it again, seemed about to stop short of itsdestination, hovered for one breathless instant on the very lip, and atlast fell into the hole.

Mr. Parkes, who had been hopping up and down on one leg, urging the ballforward with inarticulate commands and violent contortions of his body,and behaving generally in the manner of a baseball fan or a financiallyinterested spectator at a horse race, suddenly relaxed with a deep gruntof relief. He glanced at his opponent—a tall, solemn-lookinggentleman—who was regarding Mr. Parkes with an unblinking stare inwhich disgust, chagrin and fathomless melancholy were mingled.

"Well, that'll be about all for you, Mister Good Player!" announcedParkes with rather more gusto than is considered tactful at such a time."Yes; that cooks your goose, I guess! Three down and two to go, and Ilicked you"—here his voice broke and became shrill with triumph. "Ilicked you on an even game! An even game—d'you get that, Bob? Didn'thave to use my handicap at all! Ho, ho! Licked a six-handicap man on aneven game! That's pretty good shooting, I guess! You didn't think I hadit in me, did you?"

The other man did not reply, but continued to stare moodily at Mr.Parkes. He did not even seem to be listening. After a time the victorbecame aware of a certain tenseness in the situation. His stream ofself-congratulation checked to a thin trickle and at last ran dry. Therewas a short, painful silence.

"I don't want to rub it in, or anything," said Parkes apologetically;"but I've got a right to swell up a little. You'll admit that. I didn'tthink I had a chance when we started, and I never trimmed a six-handicapman before——"

"Oh, that's all right!" said the other with the nervous gesture of onewho brushes away an unpleasant subject. "Holler your fat head off—Idon't care. Give yourself aloud cheer while you're at it. I'm notpaying any attention to you."

The vanquished golfer cackled long and loud, but there was a bitterundertone in his mirth.

"Sore? Who, me? Just because a lopsided, left-handed freak like youhanded me a licking? Where do you get that stuff?"

"Well," said Mr. Parkes, still aggrieved, "if you're not sore you'dbetter haul in the signs. Your lower lip is sticking out a foot and youlook as if you'd lost your last friend."

"I've lost every shot in my bag," was the solemn reply. "I've lost mygame. You don't know what that means, because you've never had any gameto lose. It's awful—awful!"

"You don't understand," persisted the other earnestly. "A month ago Iwas breaking eighties as regular as clockwork, and every club I had wasworking fine. Then, all at once, something went wrong—my shots left me.I couldn't drive any more; couldn't keep my irons on thecourse—couldn't do anything. I kept plugging away, thinking my gamewould come back to me, hoping every shot I made that there would be someimprovement; but I'm getting worse instead of better! Nobody knows anymore about the theory of golf than I do, but I can't seem to make myselfdo the right thing at the right time. I've changed my stance; I'vechanged my grip; I've changed my swing; I've never tried harder in mylife—and look at me! I can't even give an eighteen-handicap man abattle!"

"Forget it!" repeated Parkes. "The trouble with you is that you worrytoo much about your golf. It isn't a business, you poor fish! It's asport—a recreation. I get off my game every once in a while, but Inever worry. It always comes back to me. Last Sunday I was rotten;to-day——"

"To-day you shot three sevens and a whole flock of sixes! Bah! I supposeyou call that good—eh?"

"Never you mind!" barked the indignant Mr. Parkes. "Never you mind!Those sevens and sixes were plenty good enough to lick you! Come on,take a reef in your underlip and we'll play the last two holes. Thematch is over, so you won't have that to worry about."

"You don't get me at all," protested the loser. "Not being a golferyourself, you can't understand a golfer's feelings. It's not beingbeaten that troubles me. It's knowing just how to make a shot and thenfalling down on the execution—that's what breaks my heart! If ever youget so good that you can shoot a seventy-eight on this course, and yourgame leaves you overnight—steps right out from under you and leaves youflat—then you'll know how I feel."

"There you go!" complained Parkes. "Knocking my game again! I'm a badplayer—oh, a rotten player! I admit it; but I can lick you to-day. Andjust to prove it I'll bet you a ball a hole from here in—nohandicap—not even a bisque. What say?"

"Got you!" was the grim response. "Maybe if I hit one of my old-time teeshots again it'll put some heart in me. Shoot!"

Twenty minutes later the two men walked across the broad lawn toward theclubhouse. Mr. Ingram Tecumseh Parkes was in a hilarious mood. Hegrinned from ear to ear and illustrated an animated discourse withsweeping gestures. His late opponent shuffled slowly along beside him,kicking the inoffending daisies out of his way. His shoulders saggedlistlessly, his hands hung open at his sides, and his eyes were fixed onthe ground. Utter dejection was written in every line and angle of hisdrooping form. When he entered the lounging room he threw himselfheavily into the nearest chair and remained motionless, staring out ofthe window but seeing nothing.

"What's the matter, Bob? You sick?" The query was twice repeated beforethe stricken man lifted his head slightly and turned his lack-lustreeyes upon a group of friends seated at a table close at hand.

"Eh? What's that?... Yes; I'm sick. Sick and disgusted with thisdouble-dash-blanked game."

Now there comes to every experienced golfer a time when from a fullheart he curses the Royal and Ancient Pastime. Mr. Robert Coyne'sfriends were experienced golfers; consequently his statement wasreceived with calmness—not to say a certain amount of levity.

"Last week," admitted a third, "I broke a driver over a tee box. I'dbeen slicing with it for a month; so I smashed the damned shaft. Did mea lot of good. Of course, Bob, you're a quiet, even-tempered individual,and you can't understand what a relief it is to break a club that hasbeen annoying you. Try it some time."

"No," said he; "I won't be all right this afternoon. I'll be all wrong.I haven't hit a single decent shot in three weeks—not one. I—I don'tknow what's the matter with me. I'm sick of it, I tell you."

"Yep; he's sick," chirped the cheerful Mr. Parkes, coming in like anApril zephyr. "He's sick, and I made him sicker. I'm a rotten-badgolfer—ask Bob if I ain't. I'm left-handed; I stand too close to myball; I book every tee shot; I top my irons; I can't hole a ten-footputt in a washtub; but, even so, I handed this six man a fine trimmingthis morning. Hung it all over him like a blanket. Beat him three andtwo without any handicap. Licked him on an even game; but I couldn'tmake him like it. What do you think of that, eh?"

"How about it, Bob?" asked one of the listeners. "Is this a true bill?"Mr. Coyne groaned and continued to stare out of the window.

"Oh, he won't deny it!" grinned Parkes. "I'm giving it to you straight.Then, at Number Seventeen I offered to bet him a ball a hole, just toput some life into him and stir up his—er—cupidity. I guess that's theword. No handicap, you understand. Not even a bisque. What did he do?Why, he speared a nice juicy nine on Seventeen; and he picked up hisball on Eighteen, after slicing one square into the middle of Hell'sHalf Acre. Yes; he's sick all right enough!"

"I wish I could win from awell man once in a while," complainedParkes. "Every time I lick somebody I find I've been picking on aninvalid."

Mr. Coyne mumbled something to the effect that talk never bothered him,and the general conversation languished until the devil himself promptedone of the veteran golfers to offer advice:

"I'll tell you what's wrong with you, Bob. You're overgolfed. You'vebeen playing too much lately."

"Nonsense!" argued a third. "You don't go stale at golf; you simply getoff your game. Now what Bob ought to do is to take one club and a dozenballs and stay with that club until he gets his shots back."

"That's no good," said a fourth. "If his wood has gone bad on him heought to leave his driver in his bag and use an iron off the tee. ChickEvans does that."

"Bob, why don't you get the 'pro' to give you a lesson or two? He mightbe able to straighten you out."

"Oh, what does a professional know about the theory of golf? All he cando is to tell you to watch him and do the way he does. Now what Bobneeds——"

Every man who plays golf, no matter how badly, feels himself competentto offer advice. For a long ten minutes the air was heavy withwell-meant suggestions. Coming at the wrong time, nothing is moregalling than sympathetic counsel. Bob Coyne, six-handicap man andexpert in the theory of golf, hunched his shoulders and endured it allwithout comment or protest. Somewhere in his head an idea was takingdefinite shape. Slowly but surely he was being urged to the point wheredecision merges into action.

"I tell you," said the veteran with the calm insistence of age, "Bobought to take a lay-off. He ought to forget golf for a while."

Coyne rose and moved toward the door. As his hand touched the knob theirrepressible Parkes hurled the last straw athwart a heavy burden.

"If ever I get so that I can't enjoy this game any more," said he, "Ihope I'll have strength of character enough to quit playing it."

"Oh, you do, do you?" demanded Coyne with the cold rage of a quiet man,goaded beyond the limit of his endurance. "Well, don't flatter yourself.You haven't—and you won't!"

The door closed behind this rather cryptic remark, and the listenerslooked at each other and shook their heads.

"Anything can happen when a man's game is in a slump," said the veteran."Take a steady, brainy player—a first-class golfer; let him lose hisshots for a week and there's no telling what he'll do. Nothing toit—this is the most interesting and the most exasperating outdoorsport in the world.

"Just when you think you've learned all there is to learn aboutit—bang! And there you are, flat!"

"He's been wolfing at me all morning," said Parkes. "Kind of silly tolet a game get on your nerves, eh?"

"You'll never know how a real golfer feels when his shots go bad onhim," was the consoling response. "There he goes with his bag of clubs.Practice won't help him any. What he needs is a lay-off."

"He's headed for the caddie shed," said Parkes. "I'd hate to carry hisbag this afternoon. Be afraid he'd bite me, or something.... Say, haveyou fellows heard about the two Scotchmen, playing in the finals for acup? It seems that MacNabb lost his ball on the last hole, and MacGregorwas helping him look for it——"

"I always did like that yarn," interrupted the veteran. "It's just asgood now as it was twenty years ago. Shoot!"

A dozen caddies were resting in the shed, and as they rested theylistened to the lively comment of the dean of the bag-carryingprofession, a sixteen-year-old golfing Solomon who answered to the nameof Butch:

"And you oughta seen him at the finish—all he needed was an undertaker!You know how good he used to be. Straight down the middle all the time.The poor sucker has blowed every shot in his bag—darned if it wasn'tpitiful to watch him. He ain't even got his chip shot left. And on thelast hole——"

"S-s-s-t!" whispered a youngster, glancing in the direction of theclubhouse. "Here he comes now!"

Because Mr. Coyne's game had been the subject of full and freediscussion, and because they did not wish him to know it, every trace ofexpression vanished instantly from the twelve youthful faces. The firstthing a good caddie learns is repression. Twelve wooden countenancesturned to greet the visitor. His presence in the caddie shed wasunusual, but even this fact failed to kindle the light of interest inthe eye of the youngest boy. Coyne gave them small time to wonder whatbrought him into their midst.

"Butch," said he, speaking briskly and with an air of forcedcheerfulness, "if you had a chance to pick a club out of this bag, whichone would you take?"

"Why, the light mid-iron, sir," answered the boy without an instant'shesitation. "The light mid-iron, sure!"

"Mine!" ejaculated Butch. "You—you ain'tgiving it to me, are you?"Coyne nodded. "But—but what's the idea? You can't get along withoutthat iron, sir. You use it more than any other club in your bag!"

"Yes, you are!" exclaimed the caddie, availing himself of one of theprivileges of long acquaintance. "Nobody ever quits unless they get soold they can't walk!"

"Very well," said Coyne. "If you don't want this club, maybe some ofthese other boys——"

"Not a chance!" cried Butch, seizing the mid-iron. "I didn't think youmeant it at first. I——"

"This is on the square, is it?" demanded Frenchy suspiciously. "Thisain't Injun givin'? Because—me, I had my eye on that brassy for sometime now. Weighted just right. Got a swell shaft in it.... Thank you,mister! Gee! What do think of that—hey? Some club!"

At this point the mad philanthropist was mobbed by a group of eageryoungsters, each one clamouring to share in his reckless generosity. Sofar as the boys knew, the situation was without parallel in golfinghistory; but this was a phase of the matter that could come up laterfor discussion. The main thing was to get one of those clubs while thegetting was good.

"Who astyou to pick anything, Dago? You ain't got an old brass putterthere, have you, sir? All my life I been wantin' a brass putter."

"Gimme the one that's left over?" "Quitcha shovin', there! That's amighty fine cleek. Wisht I had it!"

In less time than it takes to tell it the bag was empty. The entirecollection of golfing instruments, representing the careful anddiscriminating accumulation of years, passed into new hands. Everybodyknows that no two golf clubs are exactly alike, and that a favourite,once lost or broken, can never be replaced. A perfect club possessessomething more than proper weight and balance; it has personality andis, therefore, not to be picked up every day in the week. The driver,the spoon, the cleek, the heavy mid-iron, the jigger, the mashie, thescarred old niblick, the two putters—everything was swept away in onewild spasm of renunciation; and if it hurt Coyne to part with these oldfriends he bore the pain like a Spartan. "Well, I guess that'll be all,"said he at length.

"Mr. Coyne," said Butch, who had been practising imaginary approachshots with the light mid-iron, "you wouldn't care if I had about an inchtaken off this shaft, would you? It's a little too long for me."

"I just wanted to know," said Butch apologetically. "Lots of people saythey're going to quit; but——"

"It isn't a case of going to quit with me," said Coyne. "Ihave quit!You can make kindling wood out of that shaft if you like."

Then, with the empty bag under his arm, and his bridges aflame behindhim, he marched back to the clubhouse, his chin a bit higher in the airthan was absolutely necessary.

Later his voice was heard in the shower room, loud and clear above thesound of running water. It suited him to sing and the ditty of hischoice was a cheerful one; but the rollicking words failed to carryconviction. An expert listener might have detected a tone smackingstrongly of defiance and suspected that Mr. Coyne was singing to keep uphis courage.

When next seen he was clothed, presumably in his right mind, andrummaging deep in his locker. On the floor was a pile of miscellaneousgarments—underwear, sweaters, shirts, jackets, knickerbockers andstockings. To his assistance came Jasper, for twenty years a fixture inthe locker room and as much a part of the club as the sun porch or thefront door.

Now Jasper was what is known as a character; and, moreover, he was aprivileged one. He was on intimate terms with every member of theCountry Club and entitled to speak his mind at all times. He had made aclose study of the male golfing animal in all his varying moods; he knewwhen to sympathise with a loser, when to congratulate a winner, and whento remain silent. Jasper was that rare thing known as the perfect lockerroom servant.

"This isn't laundry," explained Coyne. "I'm just cleaning house—that'sall.... Think you can use these rubber-soled golf shoes?"

"Misteh Coyne, suh," said Jasper, "them shoes is as good as new. Whutyou want to give 'em away faw?"

"No; they fit all right. Fact of the matter is, Jasper, I'm sick of thisgame and I'm going to quit it."

"Aw, no, Misteh Coyne!" said he in the tone one uses when soothing apeevish child. "You jus'think you goin' to quit—tha's all!"

"Well, when I say I'm going to quit, you can bet I mean it!" Jasperreflected on this statement.

"Yes, suh," said he gently. "Betteh let me put them things back, MistehCoyne. They in the way here."

"What's the use of putting 'em back in the locker? They're no good tome. Make a bundle of 'em and give 'em to the poor."

"I don't care what you do with 'em! Throw 'em away—burn 'em up—pitch'em out. I don't care!"

"Yes, suh. All right, suh. Jus' as you say." Jasper rolled the heap intoa bundle and began tying it with the sleeves of a shirt. "I'll lookafteh 'em, suh."

"Never mind looking after 'em. Get rid of the stuff. I'm through, I tellyou—done—finished—quit!"

The negro was on his knees fumbling with the knot. Something in his toneirritated Coyne—caused him to feel that he was not being takenseriously.

"Yes, suh," replied Jasper with a flash of ivory. "Some of 'em quitsoncet a month, reg'leh."

"But you never heard of a case where a player gave all his clubs away,did you?" demanded Coyne.

"Some of 'embreaks clubs," said Jasper; "but they always gits newshafts put in. Some of 'em th'ow 'em in the lake; but they fish 'em outag'in. But—give 'em away? No, suh! They don' neveh do that."

"Well," said Coyne, "when I make up my mind to do a thing I do it right.I've given away every club I owned."

Jasper lifted his head and stared upward, mouth open and eyelidsfluttering rapidly.

"Oh, to the caddies," was the airy response. "Made a sort of generaldistribution. One club to each kid."

"Misteh Coyne," said Jasper earnestly, "tha's foolishness—jus' plainfoolishness. S'pose you ain' been playin' yo' reg'leh gamelately—s'pose you had a lot o' bad luck—that ain' no reason faw you todo a thing like that. Givin' all them expensible clubs to thempin-headed li'l' boys! Lawd! Lawd! They don't know how to treat 'em!They'll be splittin' the shafts, an' crackin' the heads, an' nickin' upthe irons, an'——"

Jasper shook his head sorrowfully and returned to the bundle. Whilestudying golfers he had come to know the value placed on golfing tools.

"O' course," said he slowly, "yo' own business is yo' own business,Misteh Coyne. Only, suh, it seem like a awful shame to me. Seem likebustin' up housekeepin' afteh you been married a long time.... Why notwait a few days an' see how you feel then?"

"What's the use? They'd only laugh. They wouldn't believe me. Let 'emfind it out for themselves. And, by the way—there's my empty bag in thecorner. Dispose of it somehow. Give it away—sell it. You can havewhatever you get for it."

Jasper followed him to the door and watched until the little runaboutdisappeared down the driveway.

"This golf game—she's sutny a goat getteh when she ain' goin' right.Me, I ratheh play this Af'ican golf with two dice. That's some goatgetteh, too, an' lots of people quits it; but I notice they alwayscomes back. Yes, suh; they always comes back."

As the runabout coughed and sputtered along the county road the man atthe wheel had time to think over the whole matter. Everythingconsidered, he decided that he had acted wisely.

"Been playing too much golf, anyway," he told himself. "Wednesday andSaturday afternoons, Sundays and holidays—too much!... And thenworrying about my game in between. It'll be off my mind now.... Onething sure—Mary'll be glad to hear the news. That old joke of hersabout being a golf widow won't go any more. Yes, she'll have to dig up anew one.... Maybe I have been a little selfish and neglectful. I'll makeup for it now, though. Sundays we can take the big car and go onpicnics. The kids'll like that."

He pursued this train of thought until he felt almost virtuous. He couldsee himself entering the house; he could picture his wife's amazementand pleasure; he could hear himself saying something like this:

"Well, my dear, you've got your wish at last. After thinking it all overI've decided to cut out the golf and devote myself to the family. Yes;I'm through!"

In this highly commendable spirit he arrived at home, only to find theshades drawn and the front door locked. As Coyne felt for his key ringhe remembered that his wife had said something about taking the childrento spend the day with her mother. It was also the servant's afternoonoff and the house was empty. Coyne was conscious of a slightdisappointment; he was the bearer of glad tidings, but he had noaudience.

"Oh, well," he thought; "it's been a long time since I had a quietSunday afternoon at home. Do me good. Guess I'll read a while and thenrun over to mother's for supper. I don't read as much as I used to. Manought to keep up to date."

Then, because he was a creature of habit and the most methodical of men,he must have his pipe and slippers before sitting down with his book.Mary Coyne was a good wife and a faithful mother, but she abominated apipe in the living room; and she tolerated slippers only when they wereof her own choosing.

Now there are things which every woman knows; but there is one thingwhich no woman has ever known and no woman will ever know—namely, thatshe is not competent to select slippers for her lord and master. BobCoyne was a patient man, but he loathed slippers his wife picked out forhim. He was pledged to a worn and disreputable pair of the pattern knownas Romeos—relics of his bachelor days. They were run down at the heeland thin of sole; but they were dear to his heart and he clung to themobstinately in spite of their shabby appearance. After the honeymoon ithad been necessary to speak sternly with his wife on the subject of theRomeos, else she would have thrown them on the ash heap. Since thatinterview Mrs. Coyne—obedient soul!—had spent a great portion of hermarried life in finding safe hiding places for those wretched slippers;but no matter where she put them, they seemed certain of a triumphantresurrection.

Coyne went on a still hunt for the Romeos, and found them at last,tucked away in the clothes closet of the spare room upstairs. Thiscloset was a sort of catchall, as the closets of spare rooms are apt tobe; and as Coyne stooped to pick up the slippers he knocked downsomething which had been standing in a dark corner. It fell with a heavythump, and there on the floor at his feet was a rusty old mid-iron—thefirst golf club Coyne had ever owned.

He had not seen that mid-iron in years, but he remembered it well. Hepicked it up, sighted along the shaft, found it still reasonablystraight and unwarped, balanced the club in his hands, waggled it onceas if to make a shot; then he replaced it hastily, seized the slippers,and hurried downstairs.

The book of his selection was one highly recommended by press andpulpit, hence an ideal tale for a Sunday afternoon; so he dragged aneasy-chair to the front window, lighted his pipe, put his worn Romeoson a taboret, and settled down to solid comfort. In spite of the factthat the book was said to be gripping, and entertaining from cover tocover, Coyne encountered some difficulty in getting into the thing. Heskimmed through the first chapter, yawned and looked at his watch.

"They're just getting away for the afternoon round," said he; and then,with the air of one who has caught himself in a fault, he attackedChapter Two. It proved even worse than the first. He told himself thatthe characters were out of drawing, the situations impossible, and thehumour strained or stale.

At the end of Chapter Three he pitched the book across the room andclosed his eyes. Five minutes later he rose, knocked the ashes from hispipe, and went slowly upstairs. He assured himself he was not in searchof anything; but his aimless wanderings brought him at last to the spareroom, where he seated himself on the edge of the bed. He remained therefor twenty minutes, motionless, staring into space. Then he rose,crossed the room and disappeared in the clothes closet. When he came outthe rusty mid-iron came with him. Was this a sign of weakness, ofdeterioration in the moral fibre, an indication of regret! Perish thethought! The explanation Mr. Coyne offered himself was perfectlysatisfactory. He merely wished to examine the ten-year-old shaft andascertain whether it was cracked or not. He carried the venerablesouvenir to the window and scrutinised it closely; the shaft was sound.

As he stood there, holding the old mid-iron in his hands, ten yearsslipped away from him. He remembered that club very well—almost as wellas a man remembers his first sweetheart. He remembered other thingstoo—remembered that, as a youth, he had never had the time or theinclination to play at games of any sort. He had been too busy gettinghis start, as the saying goes. Then, at thirty, married and well on hisway to business success, he had felt the need of open air and exercise.He had mentioned this to a friend and the friend had suggested golf.

"But that's an old man's game!" Yes; he had said that very thing. Hisears burned at the recollection of his folly.

He had been persuaded to spend one afternoon at the Country Club. Isthere a golfer in all the world who needs to be told what happened toMr. Robert Coyne? He had hit one long, straight tee shot; he had holedone difficult putt; and the whole course of his serious, methodicalexistence had been changed. The man who does not learn to play any gameuntil he is thirty years of age is quite capable of going daft overtiddledywinks or dominoes. If he takes up the best and most interestingof all outdoor sports his family may count itself fortunate if he doesnot become violent.

Never the sort of person who could be content to do anything badly, BobCoyne had applied himself to the Royal and Ancient Pastime with all thesimple earnestness and dogged determination of a silent, self-centredman. He had taken lessons from the professional. He had brought hisdriver home and practised with it in the back yard. He had read books onthe subject. He had studied the methods and styles of the best players.He had formed theories of his own as to stance and swing. He had eventalked golf to his wife—which is the last stage of incurable golfitis.

As he stood at the window, turning the rusty mid-iron in his hands, herecalled the first compliment ever paid him by a good player—the morepleasing because he had not been intended to hear it. It came after hehad fought himself out of the duffer class and had reached the pointwhere he was too good for the bad ones, but not considered good enoughfor the topnotchers.

One day Corkrane had invited him into a foursome—Coyne had been theonly man in sight—and Corkrane had taken him as a partner against suchredoubtable opponents as Millar and Duffy. Coyne had halved four holesand won two, defeating Millar and Duffy on the home green. Nothing hadbeen said at the time; but later on, while polishing himself with atowel in the shower room, Coyne had heard Corkrane's voice:

"Thought I'd have to carry him on my back; but he was right there allthe way round. Yep; Coyne's a comer, sure as you live!"

And the subject of this kindly comment had blushed pink out of sheergratification.

A pretty good bunch, those fellows out at the club! If it had donenothing else for him, Coyne reflected, golf had widened his circle offriends. Suddenly there came to him the realisation that he would have agreat deal of spare time on his hands in the future. Wednesdays andSaturdays would be long days now; and Sundays——Coyne sighed deeply andswung the rusty mid-iron back and forth as if in the act of studying adifficult approach.

"But what's the use?" he asked himself. "I haven't got a shot left—nota single shot!"

He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mid-iron between his knees andhis head in his hands. At the end of twenty minutes he rose and began toprowl about the house, looking into corners, behind doors, andunderneath beds and bureaus.

"Seems to me I saw it only the other day," said he. "Of course Bobbymight have been playing with it and lost it."

It was in the children's playroom that he came upon the thing, which hetold himself he found by accident. It was much the worse for wear;nearly all the paint had been worn off it and its surface was coveredwith tiny dents. Bob Junior had been teaching his dog to fetch and carryand the dents were the prints of sharp puppy teeth.

"Well, what do you think of that!" ejaculated Mr. Coyne, pretending tobe surprised. "As I live—a golf ball! Yes; a golf ball!"

He stood looking at it for some time; but at last he picked it up. Withthe rusty mid-iron in one hand and the ball in the other, he wentdownstairs, passed through the house, unlocked the back door and wentinto the yard. Behind the garage was a smooth stretch of lawn, fiftyfeet in diameter, carefully mowed and rolled. In the centre of thisemerald carpet was a hole, and in the hole was a flag. This was Mr.Coyne's private putting green.

"Haven't made a decent chip shot in a month.... No use trying now. Allconfounded foolishness!"

So saying, the man who had renounced Colonel Bogey and all his worksdropped the ball twenty feet from the edge of the putting green. The liedid not suit him; so he altered it slightly. Then he planted hisdisreputable Romeos firmly on the turf, waggled the rusty mid-iron afew times, pressed the blade lightly behind the ball, and attemptedthat most difficult of all performances—the chip shot. The ball hoppedacross the lawn to the smooth surface of the putting green and rolledstraight for the cup, struck the flag and stopped two inches from thehole.

"Heavens above!" gasped Mr. Coyne, rubbing his eyes. "Look at that, willyou? I hit the pin, by golly—hit the pin!"

At dusk Mrs. Coyne returned. The first thing she noticed was that alarge rug was missing from the dining room. Having had experience, sheknew exactly where to look for it. On the back porch she paused, herhands on her hips. The missing rug was hanging over the clothesline, andher lord and master, in shirtsleeves and the unspeakable Romeos, wasdriving a single golf ball against it.

"And I guess that's getting my weight into the swing!" babbled Mr.Coyne. "I've found out what I've been doing that was wrong. Watch me hitthis one, Mary."

"I've told you a dozen times that I didn't want you knocking holes inthat rug!" said she.

"Well, there will be if you keep on. It seems to me, Bob, that you mightget enough golf out at the club. Then you won't scandalise theneighbours by practising in the back yard on Sunday afternoons. What doyou suppose they'll think of you?"

"They'll think I'm crazy," was the cheerful response; "but, just betweenyou and me, my dear, I'm not near so crazy right now as I have been!"

III

Jasper was cleaning up the locker room—his regular Monday-morning job.As he worked he crooned the words of an old negro melody:

"Who's that?" he asked. "This early in the mawnin'?" But when herecognised the caller he did not show the faintest symptoms of surprise.Jasper was more than a perfect servant; he was also a diplomat. "Goodmawnin', Misteh Coyne."

The caller seemed embarrassed. He attempted to assume a cheerfulexpression, but succeeded in producing a silly grin.

"Yes, suh; an' nobody could blame you," said the negro, cominggallantly to the rescue.

"Yes, suh. Man don' always mean whut he say—that is, he mean it allright at thetime. Yes, suh. At—the—time. 'N'en ag'in, he mightchange."

Jasper's face was grave, but he found it necessary to fix his eyes onthe opposite wall.

"Craps, Misteh Coyne. Whut Bu't Williams calls Af'ican golf. Yes, suh, Iswo' off; but las' night—well, I kind o' fell f'um grace. I fell, suh;but I wasn't damaged so much as some o' them boys in the game." Jasperchuckled to himself. "Yes, suh; I sutny sewed 'em up propeh! Look like Icome back in my ole-time fawm!"

"That's it!" Coyne agreed eagerly. "I've got my chip shot back, Jasper.Last night, at home, I was hitting 'em as clean as a whistle. I—I ranout here this morning to have a little talk with you. You remember aboutthose clubs?" Jasper nodded. "That was a foolish thing to do——" beganCoyne.

"No, suh!" interrupted Jasper positively. "No, suh! When a man git goodan' sore he do a lot o' things whut awdinarily he wouldn't think o'doin'! Las' month I th'owed away the best paih o' crap dice you evehsaw. You givin' away yo' clubs is exackly the same thing."

"That was what I wanted to see you about," said Coyne with a shamefacedgrin. "I was wondering if there wouldn't be some way to get those clubsback—buying 'em from the boys. You could explain——"

"Same thing all oveh ag'in!" said he. "I th'owed them dice away, MistehCoyne; but I th'owed 'em kind o'easy, an' I knowed where to look. So,when you tol' me 'bout them clubs I—well, suh, I ain' been c'nectedwith this club twenty yeahs faw nothin'. If I was you, suh, I think I'dlook in my lockeh."

Coyne drew the bolt and opened the door. His clothes were hanging on thehooks; his shoes were resting on the steel floor; his golf bag wasleaning in the corner, and it was full of clubs—the clubs he had givenaway the day before! Coyne tried to speak, but the words would not come.

"You see, Misteh Coyne," explained Jasper, "I knowed them fool boyswould bust them clubs or somethin', an' I kind of s'pected you'd bewantin' 'em back ag'in; so I didn't take no chances. Afteh you leftyestiddy I kind o' took mattehs in my own hands. I tol' them caddies youwas only foolin'. The younges' ones, they was open to conviction; butthem oldeh boys—they had to be showed. Now that light mid-iron—I hadto give Butch a dollah an' twenty cents faw it. That brassy was a dollahan' a half——"

Ten minutes later the incomparable Jasper was alone in the locker room,examining a very fine sample of the work turned out by the Bureau ofEngraving and Printing at Washington, D. C. Across the bottom of thisspecimen were two words in large black type: Twenty Dollars.

"Haw!" chuckled Jasper. "I wisht some mo' of these membehs would quitplayin' golf!"

THE OOLEY-COW

After the explosion, and before Uncle Billy Poindexter and Old ManSprott had been able to decide just what had hit them, Little Doc Ellishad the nerve to tell me that he had seen the fuse burning for monthsand months. Little Doc is my friend and I like him, but he resemblesmany other members of his profession in that he is usually wisest afterthe post mortem, when it is a wee bit late for the high contractingparty.

"You have heard the old saw," said he. "A worm will turn if you keeppicking on him, and so will a straight road if you ride it long enough.A camel is a wonderful burden bearer, but even a double-humped ship ofthe desert will sink on your hands if you pile the load on him a bale ofhay at a time."

"A worm, a straight road, a camel and a sinking ship," said I. "Whitherare we drifting?"

"Think," said he, "how much longer a camel will stand up underpunishment if he gets his load straw by straw, as it were. The Ooley-cowwas a good thing, but Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott did not use anyjudgment. They piled it on him too thick."

"Well," said I, "your figures of speech need careful auditing. A camelcan go eight days without a drink——"

Little Doc made impatient motions at me with both hands. He has no senseof humour, and his mind is a one-way track, totally devoid of spurs andderailing switches. Once started, he must go straight through to hisdestination.

"What I am trying to make plain to your limited mentality," said he, "isthat Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott needed a lesson in conservation, andthey got it. The Ooley-cow was the easiest, softest picking that everstrayed from the home pasture. With care and decent treatment he wouldhave lasted a long time and yielded an enormous quantity of nourishment,but Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott were too greedy. They tried to cornerthe milk market, and now they will have to sign tags for their drinksand their golf balls the same as the rest of us. They have killed thegoose that laid the golden eggs."

"A minute ago," said I, "the Ooley-cow was a camel. Now he is a goose—adead goose, to be exact. Are you all done figuring with your speech!"

"Then," said I, "I will plaster up the cracks in your argument with thecement of information. I can use figures of speech myself. You arebarking up the wrong tree. You are away off your base. It wasn't theloss of a few dollars that made Mr. Perkins run wild in our midst. Itwas the manner in which he lost them. Let us now dismiss the worm, thecamel, the goose and all the rest of the menagerie, retaining only theOoley-cow. What do you know about cows, if anything?"

"A mighty little. You know that a cow has hoofs, horns and a tail. Thesame description would apply to many creatures, including Satan himself.Your knowledge of cows is largely academic. Now me, I was raised on afarm, and there were cows in my curriculum. I took a seven-year coursein the gentle art of acquiring the lacteal fluid. Cow is my specialty,my long suit, my best hold. Believe it or not, when we christened oldPerkins the Ooley-cow we builded better than we knew."

"I follow you at a great distance," said little Doc. "Proceed with therat killing. Why did we build better than we knew when we did not knowanything!"

"Because," I explained, "Perkins not only looks like a cow and walkslike a cow and plays golf like a cow, but he has the predominantcharacteristic of a cow. He has the one distinguishing trait which allcountry cows have in common. If you had studied that noble domesticanimal as closely as I have, you would not need to be told what movedMr. Perkins to strew the entire golf course with the mangled remains ofthe two old pirates before mentioned. Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprottwere milking him, yes, and it is quite likely that the Ooley-cow knewthat he was being milked, but that knowledge was not the prime cause ofthe late unpleasantness."

"I still follow you," said Little Doc plaintively, "but I am losingground every minute."

"Listen carefully," said I. "Pin back your ears and give me yourundivided attention. There are many ways of milking a cow withoutexciting the animal to violence. I speak now of the old-fashionedcow—the country cow—from Iowa, let us say."

"Exactly. A city cow may be milked by machinery, and in a dozendifferent ways, but the country cow does not know anything about newfangled methods. There is one thing—and one thing only—which will makethe gentlest old mooley in Iowa kick over the bucket, upset the milker,jump a four-barred fence and join the wild bunch on the range. Do youknow what that one thing is?"

Then I told him. I told him in words of one syllable, and after a timehe was able to grasp the significance of my remarks. If I could makeLittle Doc see the point I can make you see it too. We go from here.

Wesley J. Perkins hailed from Dubuque, but he did not hail from thereuntil he had gathered up all the loose change in Northeastern Iowa. Whenhe arrived in sunny Southern California he was fifty-five years of age,and at least fifty of those years had been spent in putting asidesomething for a rainy day. Judging by the diameter of his bankroll, hemust have feared the sort of a deluge which caused the early settlers tolay the ground plans for the Tower of Babel.

Now it seldom rains in Southern California—that is to say, it seldomrains hard enough to produce a flood—and as soon as Mr. Perkins becameacquainted with climatic conditions he began to jettison his ark. Hejoined an exclusive downtown club, took up quarters there and spent hisafternoons playing dominoes with some other members of the I've-got-mineAssociation. Aside from his habit of swelling up whenever he mentionedhis home town, and insisting on referring to it as "the Heidelberg ofAmerica," there was nothing about Mr. Perkins to provoke comment,unfavourable or otherwise. He was just one more Iowan in a country whereIowans are no novelty.

In person he was the mildest-mannered man that ever foreclosed ashort-term mortgage and put a family out in the street. His eyes werelarge and bovine, his mouth drooped perpetually and so did his jowls,and he moved with the slow, uncertain gait of a venerable milch cow. Hehad a habit of lowering his head and staring vacantly into space, andall these things earned for him the unhandsome nickname by which he isnow known.

"But why the Ooley-cow?" some one asked one day. "It doesn't meananything at all!"

It was an increasing waistline that caused the Ooley-cow to look abouthim for some form of gentle exercise. His physician suggested golf, andthat very week the board of directors of the Country Club was asked toconsider his application for membership. There were no ringing cheers,but he passed the censors.

I will say for Perkins that when he decided to commit golf he went aboutit in a very thorough manner. He had himself surveyed for threeknickerbocker suits, he laid in a stock of soft shirts, importedstockings and spiked shoes, and he gave our professionalcarteblanche in the matter of field equipment. It is not a safe thing togive a Scotchman permission to dip his hand in your change pocket, andMacPherson certainly availed himself of the opportunity to finger someof the Dubuque money. He took one look at the novice and unloaded on himsomething less than a hundredweight of dead stock. He also gave him alesson or two, and sent him forth armed to the teeth with wood, iron andaluminum.

Almost immediately Perkins found himself in the hands of Poindexter andSprott, two extremely hard-boiled old gentlemen who have never beenknown to take any interest in a financial proposition assaying less thanseven per cent, and that fully guaranteed. Both are retired capitalists,but when they climbed out of the trenches and retreated into the realmof sport they took all their business instincts with them.

Uncle Billy can play to a twelve handicap when it suits him to do so,and his partner in crime is only a couple of strokes behind him; butthey seldom uncover their true form, preferring to pose as doddering andinfirm invalids, childish old men, who only think they can play the gameof golf, easy marks for the rising generation. New members are theirvictims; beginners are just the same as manna from heaven to them. Theyinstruct the novice humbly and apologetically, but always with a smallside bet, and no matter how fast the novice improves he makes theastounding discovery that his two feeble old tutors are able to keeppace with him. Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott are experts at nursing abetting proposition along, and they seldom win any sort of a match by amargin of more than two up and one to go. Taking into account thenatural limitations of age they play golf very well, but they play acinch even better—and harder. It is common scandal that Uncle Billy hasnot bought a golf ball in ten years. Old Man Sprott bought one in 1915,but it was under the mellowing influence of the third toddy and,therefore, should not count against him.

The Ooley-cow was a cinch. When he turned up, innocent and guileless andeager to learn the game, Uncle Billy and his running mate were quick torealise that Fate had sent them a downy bird for plucking, and in notime at all the air was full of feathers.

They played the Ooley-cow for golf balls, they played him for caddyhire, they played him for drinks and cigars, they played him forluncheons and they played him for a sucker—played him for everything,in fact, but the locker rent and the club dues. How they came tooverlook these items is more than I know. The Ooley-cow would have stoodfor it; he stood for everything. He signed all the tags with a loose andvapid grin, and if he suffered from writer's cramp he never mentionedthe fact. His monthly bill must have been a thing to shudder at, butpossibly he regarded this extra outlay as part of his tuition.

Once in a while he was allowed to win, for Poindexter and Sprottfollowed the system practised by other confidence men; but they neverforgot to take his winnings away from him the next day, charging himinterest at the rate of fifty per cent for twenty-four hours. TheOoley-cow was so very easy that they took liberties with him, sogood-natured about his losses that they presumed upon that good natureand ridiculed him openly; but the old saw sometimes loses a tooth, theworm turns, the straight road bends at last, so does the camel's back,and the prize cow kicks the milker into the middle of next week. And, asI remarked before, the cow usually has a reason.

One morning I dropped into the downtown club which Perkins calls hishome. I found him sitting in the reception room, juggling a newspaperand watching the door. He seemed somewhat disturbed.

He handed me the paper, with his thumb at the head of the Lost-and-Foundcolumn, and I read as follows:

"Lost—A black leather wallet, containing private papers and a sum ofmoney. A suitable reward will be paid for the return of same, and noquestions asked. Apply to W. J. P., Argonaut Club, City."

"Quite a sum," replied the Ooley-cow. "Enough to make it an object. Inlarge bills mostly."

"Have you any idea where you might have dropped it? Or do you think itwas stolen?"

"I don't know what to think. I had it last night at the Country Clubjust before I left. I know I had it then, because I took it out in thelounging room to pay a small bet to Mr. Poindexter—a matter of twodollars. Then I put the wallet back in my inside pocket and camestraight here—alone in a closed car. I missed it just before going tobed. I telephoned to the Country Club. No sign of it there. I went tothe garage myself. It was not in the car. Of course it may have beenthere earlier in the evening, but I think my driver is honest, and——"

At this point we were interrupted by a clean-cut looking youngster ofperhaps seventeen years.

The boy reached in his pocket and brought out a black leather wallet. "Ihave returned your property," said he, and waited while the Ooley-cowthumbed a roll of yellow-backed bills.

"All here," said Perkins with a sigh of relief. Then he looked up at theboy, and his large bovine eyes turned hard as moss agates. "Where didyou get this?" he demanded abruptly. "How did you come by it?"

The boy smiled and shook his head, but his eyes never left Perkins'face. "No questions were to be asked, sir," said he.

"Right!" grunted the Ooley-cow. "Quite right. A bargain's a bargain.I—I beg your pardon, young man.... Still, I'd like to know.... Justcuriosity, eh?... No?... Very well then. That being the case"—hestripped a fifty-dollar note from the roll and passed it over—"wouldyou consider this a suitable reward?"

"Good day," said Perkins, and put the wallet into his pocket. He staredat the boy until he disappeared through the street door.

"Something mighty queer about this," mused the Ooley-cow thoughtfully."Mighty queer. That boy—he looked honest. He had good eyes and hewasn't afraid of me. I couldn't scare him worth a cent. Couldn't bluffhim.... Yet if he found it somewhere, there wasn't any reason why heshouldn't have told me. He didn't steal it—I'll bet on that. Maybe hegot it from some one who did. Oh, well, the main thing is that hebrought it back.... Going out to the Country Club this afternoon?"

"Come out with me then," said the Ooley-cow. "Poindexter and Sprott willbe there too. Yesterday afternoon I played Poindexter for the lunchesto-day. Holed a long putt on the seventeenth green, and stuck him. Comealong, and we'll make Poindexter give a party—for once."

"Meet me here at noon," said the Ooley-cow. "If Poindexter doesn't givethe party I will."

I wasn't exactly keen for the Ooley-cow's society, but I accepted hisinvitation to ride out to the club in his car. He regaled me with adreary monologue, descriptive of the Heidelberg of America, and solemnlyassured me that the pretty girls one sees in Chicago are all fromDubuque.

It was twelve-thirty when we arrived at the Country Club, and UncleBilly and Old Man Sprott were there ahead of us.

"Poindexter," said Perkins, "you are giving a party to-day, and I haveinvited our friend here to join us."

Uncle Billy looked at Old Man Sprott, and both laughed uproariously.Right there was where I should have detected the unmistakable odour of arodent. It was surprise number one.

"Dee-lighted!" cackled Uncle Billy. "Glad to have another guest, ain'twe, Sprott?"

Sprott grinned and rubbed his hands. "You bet! Tell you what let's do,Billy. Let's invite everybody in the place—make it a regular partywhile you're at it!"

"Great idea!" exclaimed Uncle Billy. "The more the merrier!" This wassurprise number two. The first man invited was Henry Bauer, who hasknown Uncle Billy for many years. He sat down quite overcome.

"You shouldn't do a thing like that, Billy," said he querulously. "Ihave a weak heart, and any sudden shock——"

"Novelty always appealed to me," said Bauer. "I'm forever trying thingsthat nobody has ever tried before. Yes, I'll break bread with you,but—why the celebration? What's it all about?"

That was what everybody wanted to know and what nobody found out, butthe luncheon was a brilliant success in spite of the dazed and mystifiedcondition of the guests, and the only limit was the limit of individualcapacity. Eighteen of us sat down at the big round table, andsandwich-and-milk orders were sternly countermanded by Uncle Billy, whoproved an amazing host, recommending this and that and actually orderingRhine-wine cup for all hands. I could not have been more surprised ifthe bronze statue in the corner of the grill had hopped down from itspedestal to fill our glasses. Uncle Billy collected a great pile of tagsbeside his plate, but the presence of so much bad news waiting at hiselbow did not seem to affect his appetite in the least. When the partywas over he called the head waiter. "Mark these tags paid," said UncleBilly, capping the collection with a yellow-backed bill, "and hand thechange to Mr. Perkins."

I looked at the Ooley-cow, and was just in time to see the light ofintelligence dawn in his big soft eyes. He was staring at Uncle Billy,and his lower lip was flopping convulsively. Everybody began askingquestions at once.

"One moment, gentlemen," mooed the Ooley-cow, pounding on the table."One moment!"

"Now don't get excited, Perkins," said Old Man Sprott. "You got yourwallet back, didn't you? Cost you fifty, but you got it back. Next timeyou won't be so careless."

"Yes," chimed in Uncle Billy, "you oughtn't to go dropping your moneyround loose that way. It'll teach you a lesson."

"It will indeed." The Ooley-cow lowered his head and glared first at oneold pirate and then at the other. His soft eyes hardened and themoss-agate look came into them. He seemed about to bellow, paw up thedirt and charge.

"The laugh is on you," cackled Poindexter, "and I'll leave it to theboys here. Last night our genial host dropped his wallet on the floorout in the lounging room. I kicked it across under the table to Sprottand Sprott put his foot on it. We intended to give it back to himto-day, but this morning there was an 'ad' in the paper—reward and noquestions asked—so we sent a nice bright boy over to the Argonaut Clubwith the wallet. Perkins gave the boy a fifty-dollar note—very liberal,I call it—and the boy gave it to me. Perfectly legitimate transaction.Our friend here has had a lesson, we've had a delightful luncheon party,and the joke is on him."

"Yes," said the Ooley-cow at last, "a pretty good joke. Ha, ha! A mightygood joke." And place it to his credit that he managed a very fairimitation of a fat man laughing, even to the shaking of the stomach andthe wrinkles round the eyes. He looked down at the tray in front of himand fingered the few bills and some loose silver.

"A mighty good joke," he repeated thoughtfully, "but what I can'tunderstand is this—why didn't you two jokers keep the change? It wouldhave been just that much funnier."

III

The Ooley-cow's party was generally discussed during the next ten days,the consensus of club opinion being that some one ought to teachPoindexter and Sprott the difference between humour and petty larceny.Most of the playing members were disgusted with the two old skinflints,and one effect of this sentiment manifested itself in the number ofinvitations that Perkins received to play golf with real people. Hedeclined them all, much to our surprise, and continued to wallop his wayround the course with Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott, apparently on ascordial terms as ever.

"What are you going to do with such a besotted old fool as that?" askedHenry Bauer. "Here I've invited him into three foursomes this week—allwhite men, too—and he's turned me down cold. It's not that we want toplay with him, for as a golfer he's a terrible thing. It's not thatwe're crazy about him personally, for socially he's my notion of zerominus; but he took his stinging like a dead-game sport and he's entitledto better treatment than he's getting. But if he hasn't any better sensethan to pass his plate for more, what are you going to do about it?"

"No, it's the other way round," argued Bauer. "His idols are joined tohim—fastened on like leeches. The question naturally arises, how didsuch a man ever accumulate a fortune? Who forced it on him, and when,and where, and why?"

That very afternoon the Ooley-cow turned up with his guest, a large,loud person, also from the Heidelberg of America, who addressed Perkinsas "Wesley," and lost no time in informing us that Southern Californiawould have starved to death but for Iowa capital. His name wasCottle—Calvin D. Cottle—and he gave each one of us his card as he wasintroduced. There was no need. Nobody could have forgotten him. Somepeople make an impression at first sight—Calvin D. Cottle made a deepdent. His age was perhaps forty-five, but he spoke as one crowned withMethuselah's years and Solomon's wisdom, and after each windy statementhe turned to the Ooley-cow for confirmation.

"Ain't that so, Wesley? Old Wes knows, you bet your life! He's from myhome town!"

It was as good as a circus to watch Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprottsizing up this fresh victim. It reminded me of two wary old dogscircling for position, manœuvring for a safe hold. They wanted toknow something about his golf game—what was his handicap, forinstance?

"Handicap?" repeated Cottle. "Is that a California idea? Something new,ain't it?"

"Oh!" said Cottle. "You mean what do I go round in—how many strokes.Well, sometimes I cut under a hundred; sometimes I don't. It justdepends. Some days I can hit 'em, some days I can't. That's all there isto it."

"My case exactly," purred Old Man Sprott. "Suppose we dispense with thehandicap?"

"That's the stuff!" agreed Cottle heartily. "I don't want to have togive anybody anything; I don't want anybody to give me anything. I likean even fight, and what I say is, may the best man win! Am I right,gentlemen?"

"You bet I'm right!" boomed Cottle. "Ask old Wes here about me. Raisedright in the same town with him, from a kid knee-high to a grasshopper!I never took any the best of it in my life, did I, Wes? No, you bet not!Remember that time I got skinned out of ten thousand bucks on the landdeal? A lot of fellows would have squealed, wouldn't they? A lot offellows would have hollered for the police; but I just laughed and gave'em credit for being smarter than I was. I'm the same way in sport as Iam in business. I believe in giving everybody credit. I win if I can,but if I can't—well, there's never any hard feelings. That's me allover. You may be able tolick me at this golf thing—likely you will;but you'll neverscare me, that's a cinch. Probably you gentlemen playa better game than I do—been at it longer; but then I'm a lot youngerthan you are. Got more strength. Hit a longer ball when I do manage toland on one right. So it all evens up in the long run."

Mr. Cottle was still modestly cheering his many admirable qualities whenthe Perkins party went in to luncheon, and the only pause he made was onthe first tee. With his usual caution Uncle Billy had arranged it sothat Dubuque was opposed to Southern California, and he had alsocarefully neglected to name any sort of a bet until after he had seenthe stranger drive.

Cottle teed his ball and stood over it, gripping his driver until hisknuckles showed white under the tan. "Get ready to ride!" said he."You're about to leave this place!"

The club head whistled through the air, and I can truthfully say that Inever saw a man of his size swing any harder at a golf ball—or comenearer cutting one completely in two.

"Topped it, by gum!" ejaculated Mr. Cottle, watching the maimed balluntil it disappeared in a bunker. "Topped it! Well, better luck nexttime! By the way, what are we playing for? Balls, or money, or what?"

"Good! That's the way I like to hear a man talk. Old Wes here is mypartner, so I can't bet with him, but I'll have a side match with eachof you gentlemen—say, ten great, big, smiling Iowa dollars. Always liketo bet what I've got the most of. Satisfactory?"

Uncle Billy glanced at Old Man Sprott, and for an instant the oldrascals hesitated. The situation was made to order for them, but theywould have preferred a smaller wager to start with, being pettylarcenists at heart.

"Better cut that down to five," said Perkins to Cottle in a low tone."They play a strong game."

"Humph!" grunted his guest. "Did you ever know me to pike in my life? Iain't going to begin now. Ten dollars or nothing!"

"This once," said Uncle Billy. "It's against my principles to play formoney; but yes, this once."

"Ball, ball, ball," said the Ooley-cow briefly, and proceeded to followhis partner into the bunker. Poindexter and Sprott popped conservativelydown the middle of the course and the battle was on.

Battle, did I say! It was a massacre of the innocents, a slaughter ofbabes and sucklings. Our foursome trailed along behind, and took note ofMr. Cottle, of Dubuque, in his fruitless efforts to tear the cover offthe ball. He swung hard enough to knock down a lamp-post, but he seldommade proper connections, and when he did the ball landed so far off thecourse that it took him a dozen shots to get back again. He washopelessly bad, so bad that there was no chance to make the side matchesclose ones. On the tenth tee Cottle demanded another bet—to give him achance to get even, he said. Poindexter and Sprott each bet him anotherten dollar note on the last nine, and this time Uncle Billy did not sayanything about his principles.

After it was all over Cottle poured a few mint toddies into his systemand floated an alibi to the surface.

"It was those confounded sand greens that did it," said he. "I'm used tograss, and I can't putt on anything else. Bet I could take you toDubuque and flail the everlasting daylights out of you!"

"Shouldn't be surprised," said Uncle Billy. "You did a lot better on thelast nine—sort of got into your stride. Any time you think you wantrevenge——"

"You can have it," finished Old Man Sprott, as he folded a crisptwenty-dollar note. "We believe in giving a man a chance—eh, Billy?"

"That's the spirit!" cried Cottle enthusiastically. "Give a man achance; it's what I say, and if he does anything, give him credit. Youbeat me to-day, but I never saw this course before. Tell you what we'lldo: Let's make a day of it to-morrow. Morning and afternoon both.Satisfactory! Good! You've got forty dollars of my dough and I want itback. Nobody ever made me quit betting yet, if I figure to have achance. What's money? Shucks! My country is full of it! Now then,Wesley, if you'll come out on the practise green and give me somepointers on this sand thing, I'll be obliged to you. Ball won't run onsand like it will on grass—have to get used to it. Have to hit 'em alittle harder. Soon as I get the hang of the thing we'll give theseNative Sons a battle yet! Native Sons? Native Grandfathers! Come on!"Uncle Billy looked at Old Man Sprott and Old Man Sprott looked at UncleBilly, but they did not begin to laugh until the Ooley-cow and his guestwere out of earshot. Then they clucked and cackled and choked like acouple of hysterical old hens.

"His putting!" gurgled Uncle Billy. "Did he have a putt to win a holeall the way round?"

"We made a mistake locating so far West. We should have stopped in Iowa.By now we'd have owned the entire state!"

I dropped Mr. Calvin D. Cottle entirely out of my thoughts; but when Ientered the locker room shortly after noon the next day somethingreminded me of him. Possibly it was the sound of his voice.

"Boy! Can't we have 'nother toddy here? What's the matter with someservice? How 'bout you, Wes? Oh, I forgot—you never take anything tillafter five o 'clock. Think of all the fun you're missing. When I get tobe an old fossil like you maybe I'll do the same. Good rule.... Yougentlemen having anything? No? Kind of careful, ain't you? Safety first,hey?... Just one toddy, boy, and if that mint ain't fresh, I'll ....Yep, you're cagey birds, you are, but I give you credit just the same.And some cash. Don't forget that. Rather have cash than credit any time,hey? I bet you would! But I don't mind a little thing like that. I'm agood sport. You ask Wes here if I ain't. If I ain't a good sport I ain'tanything.... Still, I'll be darned if I see how you fellows do it!You're both old enough to have sons in the Soldiers' Home over yonder,but you take me out and lick me again—lick me and make me like it! Acouple of dried-up mummies with one foot in the grave, and I'm right inthe prime of life! Only a kid yet! It's humiliating, that's what it is,humiliating! Forty dollars apiece you're into me—and a flock of golfballs on the side! Boy! Where's that mint toddy? Let's have a littleservice here!"

I peeped through the door leading to the lounging room. TheDubuque-California foursome was grouped at a table in a corner. TheOoley-cow looked calm and placid as usual, but his guest was sweatingprofusely, and as he talked he mopped his brow with the sleeve of hisshirt. Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott were listening politely, but thespeculative light in their eyes told me that they were wondering how farthey dared go with this outlander from the Middle West.

"Why," boomed Cottle, "I can hit a ball twice as far as either one ofyou! 'Course I don't always know where it's going, but the main thing isI got thestrength. I can throw a golf ball farther than you oldfossils can hit one with a wooden club, yet you lick me easy as breakingsticks. Can't understand it at all.... Twice as strong as you are....Why, say, I bet I can take one hand and outdrive you!One hand!"

"Well, I'll bet I can do it," repeated Cottle stubbornly. "If a man'swilling to bet his money to back up a wild statement, that shows he'sgot the right kind of a heart anyway.

"I ought to be able to stick my left hand in my pocket and go out thereand trim two men of your age. I ought to, and I'll be damned if I don'tthink I can!"

"Think so?" Cottle dipped his hand into his pocket and brought out athick roll of bills. "Well, this stuff here says I can do it—at least Icantry—and I ain't afraid to back my judgment."

"Good old Wes!" he cried. "Ain't changed a bit. Conservative! Alwaysconservative! Got rich at it, but me I got rich taking chances. What's alittle wad of bills to me, hey? Nothing but chicken-feed! I'll bet anypart of this roll—I'll betall of it—and I'll play these sun-driedold sports with one hand. Now's the time to show whether they've got anysporting blood or not. What do you say, gentlemen?"

Uncle Billy looked at the money and moistened his lips with the tip ofhis tongue.

"He ain't scared," put in Old Man Sprott. "It would be too much likestealing it."

"I'm the one to worry about that," announced Cottle. "It's my money,ain't it? I made it, didn't I? And I can do what I damn please withit—spend it, bet it, burn it up, throw it away. When you've worriedabout everything else in the world it'll be time for you to beginworrying about young Mr. Cottle's money! This slim little roll—bah!Chicken-feed! Come get it if you want it!" He tossed the money on thetable with a gesture which was an insult in itself. "There it is—coverit! Put up or shut up!"

"Oh, forget it!" said the Ooley-cow wearily. "Come in and have a bite toeat and forget it!"

"Don't want anything to eat!" was the stubborn response. "Seldom eat inthe middle of the day. But I'll have 'nother mint toddy.... Wait asecond, Wes. Don't be in such a rush. Lemme understand this thing.These—these gentlemen here, these two friends of yours, these dead-gameold Native Sons have got eighty dollars of my money—not that it makesany difference to me, understand, but they've got it—eighty dollarsthat they won from me playing golf. Now I may have a drink or two in meand I may not, understand, but anyhow I know what I'm about. I makethese—gentlemen a sporting proposition. I give 'em a chance to pick upa couple of hundred apiece, and they want to run out on me because it'llbe like stealing it. What kind of a deal is that, hey? Is itsportsmanship? Is it what they call giving a man a chance? Is it——"

"But they know you wouldn't have a chance," interrupted the Ooley-cowsoothingly. "They don't want a sure thing."

"They've had one so far, haven't they?" howled Cottle. "What are theyscared of now? 'Fraid I'll squeal if I lose? Tell 'em about me, Wes.Tell 'em I never squealed in my life! I win if I can, but if Ican't—'s all right. No kick coming. There never was a piker in theCottle family, was there, Wes? No, you bet not! We're sports, every oneof us. Takes more than one slim little roll to send us up a tree! Ifthere's anything that makes me sick, it's a cold-footed, penny-pinching,nickel-nursing, sure-thing player!"

"Your money does not frighten me," said Uncle Billy, who was slightlynettled by this time. "It is against my principles to play for a cashbet——"

"But you and your pussy-footed old side-partner got into me for eightydollars just the same!" scoffed Cottle. "You and your principles bedamned!"

Uncle Billy swallowed this without blinking, but he did not look atCottle. He was looking at the roll of bills on the table.

"If you are really in earnest——" began Poindexter, and glanced at OldMan Sprott.

"Go ahead, Billy," croaked that aged reprobate. "Teach him a lesson. Heneeds it."

"Never mind the lesson," snapped Cottle. "I got out of school a longtime ago. The bet is that I can leave my left arm in the clubhousesafe—stick it in my pocket—and trim you birds with one hand."

"We wouldn't insist on that," said Old Man Sprott. "Play with both handsif you want to."

"Think I'm a welsher?" demanded Cottle. "The original proposition goes.'Course I wouldn't really cut the arm off and leave it in the safe, butwhat I mean is, if I use two arms in making a shot, right there is whereI lose. Satisfactory?"

"Perkins," said Uncle Billy, solemnly wagging his head, "you are awitness that this thing has been forced on me. I have been bullied andbrowbeaten and insulted into making this bet——"

"I am a witness," said he quietly. "Calvin, these gentlemen have statedthe case correctly. You have forced them to accept your proposition——"

"And he can't blame anybody if he loses," finished Uncle Billy as hereached for the roll of bills.

"You bet!" ejaculated Old Man Sprott. "He was looking for trouble, andnow he's found it. Count it, Billy, and we'll each take half."

"Oh, I just wanted to put you on record," said Cottle, with a grin."Wesley, you're my witness too. I mislaid a five-hundred-dollar note theother day, and it may have got into my change pocket. Might as well seeif a big bet will put these safety-first players off their game! Anyhow,I'm betting whatever's there. I ain't sure how much it is."

"I am," said Uncle Billy in a changed voice. He had come to thefive-hundred-dollar bill, sandwiched in between two twenties. He lookedat Old Man Sprott, and for the first time I saw doubt in his eyes.

"Oh, it's there, is it!" asked Cottle carelessly. "Well, let it allride. I never backed up on a gambling proposition in my life—neverpinched a bet after the ball started to roll. Shoot the entire works—'sall right with me!"

Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott exchanged significant glances, but aftera short argument and some more abuse from Cottle they toddled over tothe desk and filled out two blank checks—for five hundred and eightydollars apiece.

"Make 'em payable to cash," suggested Cottle. "You'll probably tear 'emup after the game. Now the next thing is a stakeholder——"

"Sure!" said Cottle. "I might run out on you. Let's have everythingaccording to Hoyle—stakeholder and all the other trimmings. Anybody'llbe satisfactory to me; that young fellow getting an earful at the door;he'll do."

So I became the stakeholder—the custodian of eleven hundred and sixtydollars in coin and two checks representing a like amount. I thought Idetected a slight nervousness in the signatures, and no wonder. It wasthe biggest bet those old petty larcenists had ever made in their lives.They went in to luncheon—at the invitation of the Ooley-cow, ofcourse—but I noticed that they did not eat much. Cottle wandered outto the practise green, putter in hand, forgetting all about the minttoddy which, by the way, had never been ordered.

"You drive first, sir," said Uncle Billy to Cottle, pursuing his usualsystem. "We'll follow you."

"Think you'll feel easier if I should hit one over into the eucalyptustrees yonder?" asked the man from Dubuque. "Little nervous, eh? Does abig bet scare you? I was counting on that.... Oh, very well, I'll takethe honour."

"Just a second," said Old Man Sprott, who had been prowling about in thebackground and fidgeting with his driver. "Does the stakeholderunderstand the terms of the bet? Mr. Cottle is playing a match with eachof us individually——"

"If he uses both arms in making a shot," put in Uncle Billy, "heforfeits both matches. Is that correct, Mr. Cottle?"

"Correct as hell! Watch me closely, young man. I have no moustache todeceive you—nothing up my sleeve but my good right arm. Watch meclosely!"

He teed his ball, dropped his left arm at his side, grasped the driverfirmly in his right hand and swung the club a couple of times intentative fashion. The head of the driver described a perfect arc,barely grazing the top of the tee. His two-armed swing had been a thingof violence—a baseball wallop, constricted, bound up, withoutfollow-through or timing, a combination of brute strength andawkwardness. Uncle Billy's chin sagged as he watched the easy, naturalsweep of that wooden club—the wrist-snap applied at the proper time,and the long graceful follow-through which gives distance as well asdirection. Old Man Sprott also seemed to be struggling with an entirelynew and not altogether pleasant idea.

"Watch me closely, stakeholder," repeated Cottle, addressing the ball."Nothing up my sleeve but my good right arm. Would you gentlemen like tohave me roll up my sleeve before I start?"

"I'll do that little thing," said Cottle, and this time he put the powerinto the swing. The ball, caught squarely in the middle of theclub-face, went whistling toward the distant green, a perfect screamerof a drive without a suspicion of hook or slice. It cleared thecross-bunker by ten feet, carried at least a hundred and eighty yardsbefore it touched grass, and then bounded ahead like a scared rabbit,coming to rest at least two hundred and twenty-five yards away. "Youlike that?" asked Cottle, moving off the tee. "I didn't step into itvery hard or I might have had more distance. Satisfactory,stakeholder?" And he winked at me openly and deliberately.

"Wha—what sort of a game is this?" gulped Old Man Sprott, finding hisvoice with an effort.

"Why," said Cottle, smiling cheerfully, "I wouldn't like to say off-handand so early in the game, but you might call it golf. Yes, call it golf,and let it go at that."

At this point I wish to go on record as denying the rumour that our twoold reprobates showed the white feather. That first tee shot, and themanner in which it was made, was enough to inform them that they were upagainst a sickening surprise party; but, though startled and shaken,they did not weaken. They pulled themselves together and drove the bestthey knew how, and I realised that for once I was to see their truegolfing form uncovered.

Cottle tucked his wooden club under his arm and started down the course,and from that time on he had very little to say. Uncle Billy and Old ManSprott followed him, their heads together at a confidential angle, and Ibrought up the rear with the Ooley-cow, who had elected himself agallery of one.

The first hole is a long par four. Poindexter and Sprott usually make itin five, seldom getting home with their seconds unless they have a windbehind them. Both used brassies and both were short of the green. Thenthey watched Cottle as he went forward to his ball.

"Lucky fluke, that's all," said Old Man Sprott, but I knew and they knewthat they only hoped they were telling the truth.

Cottle paused over his ball for an instant, examined the lie and drew awooden spoon from his bag. Then he set himself, and the next instant theball was on its way, a long, high shot, dead on the pin.

"And maybe that was a fluke!" muttered the Ooley-cow under his breath."Look! He's got the green with it!"

From the same distance I would have played a full mid-iron and trustedin Providence, but Cottle had used his wood, and I may say that neverhave I seen a ball better placed. It carried to the little rise of turfin front of the putting green, hopped once, and trickled onto the sand.I was not the only one who appreciated that spoon shot.

"Say," yapped Old Man Sprott, turning to Perkins, "what are we upagainst here? Miracles?"

"Something easy, gentlemen," chuckled the Ooley-cow. "A soft thing frommy home town. Probably he's only lucky."

The two members of the Sure-Thing Society went after their customaryfives and got them, but Cottle laid his approach putt stone dead at thecup and holed out in four. He missed a three by the matter of half aninch. I could stand the suspense no longer. I took Perkins aside whilethe contestants were walking to the second tee.

"You might tell a friend," I suggested. "In strict confidence, what arethey up against?"

"Something easy," repeated the Ooley-cow, regarding me with his soft,innocent eyes. "They wanted it and now they've got it."

"That was yesterday," said Perkins. "You'll notice that they didn't havethe decency to offer him a handicap, even when they felt morally certainthat he had made a fool bet. Not that he would have accepted it—butthey didn't offer it. They're wolves, clear to the bone, but once in awhile a wolf bites off more than he can chew." And he walked away fromme. Right there I began reconstructing my opinion of the Ooley-cow.

In my official capacity as stakeholder I saw every shot that was playedthat afternoon. I still preserve the original score card of that amazinground of golf. There are times when I think I will have it framed andpresent it to the club, with red-ink crosses against the thirteenth andfourteenth holes. I might even set a red-ink star against the difficultsixth hole, where Cottle sent another tremendous spoon shot down thewind, and took a four where most of our Class-A men are content with afive. I might make a notation against the tricky ninth, where he playeda marvellous shot out of a sand trap to halve a hole which I would havegiven up as lost. I might make a footnote calling attention to hisdeadly work with his short irons. I say I think of all these things, butperhaps I shall never frame that card. The two men most interested willnever forget the figures. It is enough to say that Old Man Sprott,playing such golf as I had never seen him play before, succumbed at thethirteenth hole, six down and five to go. Uncle Billy gave up the ghoston the fourteenth green, five and four, and I handed the money and thechecks to Mr. Calvin D. Cottle, of Dubuque. He pocketed the loot with agrin.

"Shall we play the bye-holes for something?" he asked. "A drink—or aball, maybe?" And then the storm broke. I do not pretend to quote theexact language of the losers. I merely state that I was surprised, yes,shocked at Uncle Billy Poindexter. I had no idea that a member of theEpiscopal church—but let that pass. He was not himself. He was thebiter bitten, the milker milked. It makes a difference. Old Man Sprottalso erupted in an astounding manner. It was the Ooley-cow who took thecentre of the stage.

"Just a minute, gentlemen," said he. "Do not say anything which youmight afterward regret. Remember the stakeholder is still with us. Myfriend here is not, as you intimate, a crook. Neither is he asure-thing player. We have some sure-thing players with us, but he isnot one of them. He is merely the one-armed golf champion ofDubuque—and the Middle West."

"Yes, yes, I know," said Perkins soothingly. "He can't play a lick withtwo arms. He never could. Matter of fact, he never learned. He fell offa haystack in Iowa—how many years ago was it, Cal?"

"And he broke his left arm rather badly," explained the Ooley-cow."Didn't have the use of it for—how many years, Cal?"

"Six years. A determined man can accomplish much in that length of time.Cottle learned to play golf with his right arm—fairly well, as you mustadmit. Finally he got the left arm fixed up—they took a piece of boneout of his shin and grafted it in—newfangled idea. Decided there was nosense in spoiling a one-armed star to make a dub two-armed golfer.Country full of 'em already. That's the whole story. You picked him foran easy mark, a good thing. You thought he had a bad bet and you had agood one. Don't take the trouble to deny it. Gentlemen, allow me topresent the champion one-armed golfer of Iowa and the Middle West!"

"Yes," said Cottle modestly, "when a man does anything, give him creditfor it. Personally I'd rather have the cash!"

Judging by their comments, they felt warm—very warm. Hot, in fact. TheOoley-cow made just one more statement, but to me that statementcontained the gist of the whole matter.

"This," said he, "squares us on the wallet proposition. I didn't sayanything about it at the time, but that struck me as a scaly trick. So Iinvited Cal to come out and pay me a visit.... Shall we go back to theclubhouse?"

Returning to the original simile, the Ooley-cow was willing to be milkedfor golf balls and luncheons and caddie hire. That was legitimatemilking, and he did not resent it. He would have continued to give downin great abundance, but when they took fifty dollars from him, in theform of a bogus reward, he kicked over the bucket, injured the milkersand jumped the fence.

Why? I'm almost ashamed to tell you, but did you ever hear of a countrycow—an Iowa cow—that would stand for being milked from the wrong side?

I think this will be all, except that I anticipate a hard winter for thegolfing beginners at our club.

ADOLPHUS AND THE ROUGH DIAMOND

Now that Winthrop Watson Wilkins has taken his clubs away and cleanedout his locker some of the fellows are ready enough to admit that hewasn't half bad. On this point I agree with them. He was not. He wastwo-thirds bad, and the remainder was pure, abysmal, impenetrableignorance.

Windy Wilkins may have meant well—perhaps he did—but when a fellowdoesn't know, and doesn't know that he doesn't know and won't letanybody tell him that he doesn't know, he becomes impossible and out ofplace in any respectable and exclusive golf club. I suppose hisapologists feel kindly toward him for eliminating Adolphus Kitts andsquaring about a thousand old scores with that person, but I claim itwas a case of dog eat dog and neither dog a thoroughbred. I for one amnot mourning the departure of Windy Winkins, and if I never see himagain, I will manage to bear it somehow.

They say that every golf club has one member who slips in while themembership committee is looking the other way. In Windy's case thecommittee had no possible excuse. There was an excuse for AdolphusKitts. Adolphus got in when our club absorbed the Crystal SpringsCountry Club, and out of courtesy we did not scrutinise the CrystalSprings membership list, but Windy's name was proposed in the regularmanner. All that was known of him was that he was a stranger in thecommunity who had presumably never been in jail and who had money. Theclub didn't need his initiation fee and wasn't after new members, butfor some reason or other the bars were down and Windy got in. The firstthing we knew he landed in our midst with a terrific splash and beganslapping total strangers on the back and trying to sign all thetags and otherwise making an ass of himself. He didn't wait forintroductions—just butted in and took things for granted.

"You see, boys," he explained, "I've always been more or less of anath-a-lete and I've tried every game but this one. Now that I'm gettin'to the time of life when I can't stand rough exercise any more, Ithought I'd kind of like to take up golf. I would have done it when Ilived in Chicago, but my friends laughed me out of it—said it was sillyto get out and whale a little white pill around the country—but I guessanything that makes a man sweat is healthy, hey? And then my wifethought it would be a good thing socially, you know, and—no, waiter,this round is on me. Oh, but I insist! My card, gentlemen. That's right;keep 'em. I get 'em engraved by the thousand. Waiter! Bring some cigarshere—perfectos, cigarettes—anything the gentlemen'll have, and let itbe the best in the house! I don't smoke cigarettes myself, but myfriends tell me that's the next step after takin' up golf! Ho, ho! Nooffence to any of you boys; order cigarettes if you want 'em. Everybodysmokes on the new member!"

Well, that was Windy's tactful method of introducing himself. Is it anywonder that we asked questions of the membership committee? Noout-and-out complaints, you understand. We just wanted to know whereWindy came from and how he got in and who was to blame for it. Most ofthe information was furnished by Cupid Cutts.

Cupid is pretty nearly the whole thing at our club. In every golf clubthere is one man who does the lion's share of the work and gets nothingbut abuse and criticism for it, and Cupid is our golfing wheel horse, asyou might say. He is a member of the board of directors, a member of thehouse committee, chairman of the greens committee, and the Big Stick onthe membership committee. He is also the official handicapper, which isa mighty good thing to bear in mind when you play against him. I haveknown Cupid to cut a man's handicap six strokes for beating him threeways on a ball-ball-ball Nassau.

Cutts is no Chick Evans, or anything like that, but, considering hisphysical limitations, he is a remarkable golfer and steady as aneight-day clock. He is so fat that he can't take a full-arm swing tosave his life, but his little half-shot pops the ball straight down themiddle of the course every time, and he plays to his handicap with apersistency that has broken many a youngster's heart. Straight on thepin all the time—that's his game, and whenever he's within a hundredyards of the cup he's liable to lay his ball dead.

There are lots of things I might tell you about Cupid Cutts—he's a sortof social Who's Who in white flannels and an obesity belt, and anauthority on scandal and gossip, past and present—but the long andshort of it is that it would be hard to get on without him, even harderthan it is to get on with him. Well, we asked Cupid about Windy Wilkins,and Cupid went to the bat immediately.

"Absolutely all right, fellows, oh, absolutely! A little rough, perhaps,a diamond in the rough, but a good heart. And all kinds of money. Hewon't play often enough to bother anybody."

That was where Cupid was wrong two ways. Windy played every day, rain orshine, and he bothered everybody. He was just as noisy on the course ashe was in the locker room, and when he missed his putt on theeighteenth green the fellows who were driving off at No. 1 had to waituntil he cooled down. And when he managed to hit his drive clean heyelled like a Comanche and jumped up and down on the tee. He did all thethings that can't be done, and when we spoke to him kindly about golfingetiquette he snorted and said he never had much use for red tape anywayand thought it was out of place in sport.

He tramped around on the greens and bothered people who wanted to putt.He talked and laughed when others were driving. He played out of histurn. He drove into foursomes whenever he was held up for a minute, justto let the players know that he was behind 'em.

He was absolutely impossible, socially and otherwise, but the mostastonishing thing was the way he picked up the game after the firstmonth or so. Windy was a tremendously big man and looked like the hindend of an elephant in his knickers; but for all his size he developed apowerful, easy swing and a reasonable amount of accuracy. As for form,he didn't know the meaning of the word. His stance was never twice thesame, his grip was a relic of the dark ages, he handled his irons as alabouring man handles a pick, he did everything that the books say youmustn't do, and, in spite of it, his game improved amazingly. And hecalled us moving-picture golfers!

"Every move a picture!" he would say. "You have to plant your dearlittle feet just so. Your tee has got to be just so high. Your grip mustbe right to the fraction of an inch. You must waggle the club back andforth seven times before you dare to swing it, and then chances are youdon't get anywhere! Step up and paste her on the nose the way I do!Forget this Miss Nancy stuff and hit the ball!"

When Windy got down around 90 he swelled all out of shape, and the nextstep, of course, was to have some special clubs built by MacLeish, theprofessional. They were such queer-looking implements that Cupid jokedhim about them one Saturday noon in the locker room. It was then that wegot a real line on Windy, and Cupid found out that even a rough diamondmay have a cutting edge.

"You're just like all beginners," said Cupid. "You make a few rottenshots and then think the clubs must be wrong. The regular models aren'tgood enough for you. You have to have some built to order, with biggerfaces and stiffer shafts. Get it into your head that the trouble is withyou, not with the club. The ball will go straight if you hit it right."

"All right," said he at last. "Tell you what I'll do. I'll make you alittle proposition. You say you can play with any clubs. Give me theprivilege of pickin' 'em out for you, and I'll bet you fifty dollarsthat I trim you on an even game—no handicap."

"Yes, but where are you going to get these clubs for me to play with?Off a scrap pile or something?"

"Right out of MacLeish's shop! Brand-new stuff, selected from theregular stock. And I'll go against you even, just to prove that youdon't know it all, even if you have been playin' golf for twenty years!"

It was a flat, out-and-out challenge. Cupid looked Windy up and downwith a pitying smile—the same smile he uses when an 18-handicap manasks to be raised to 24.

Windy didn't say anything, but he went into his locker and brought out aroll of bills about the size of a young grindstone. He counted fiftydollars off it, and you couldn't have told the difference. It lookedjust as big as before. He handed the fifty to me.

"If you get away with it," said Windy, "I won't complain to the police.Put up or shut up."

Well, it looked like finding the money. We knew that Windy couldn'tbreak a 90 to save his life, and Cupid had done the course in an 84,using nothing but a putting cleek.

"How many clubs can I have?" asked Cupid with his usual caution in thematter of bets.

"I'll take eight," said Cupid briskly. "And if you don't mind, I'll posta check. I'm not in the habit of carrying the entire cash balance in myjeans."

"Fair enough!" said Windy. "You boys are all witnesses to the terms ofthis bet. I'm to pick out eight clubs—eight new ones—and Cutts here isto play with 'em. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly!" grinned Cupid. "It'll just cost you fifty fish to find outthat a mechanical golfer can lick you with strange weapons."

"I don't want the fellow's money," said he, "but Windy's entirely toofresh for a new member. A beating will do him good and make him humble.Eight clubs. If he brings me only two or three that I can use—a driver,a mid-iron, and a putter—I'll hang his hide on the fence too easy. He'smade a bad bet."

But it wasn't such a bad bet after all. Windy came back with eightclubs in the crook of his arm, and when Cupid caught a glimpse of thecollection he howled himself purple in the face, and no wonder. Eightnice, new, shiny, mashie niblicks!

You see, nothing was said about thesort of clubs Windy was to pickout, and he had selected eight of the same pattern, no good on earthexcept for digging out of bunkers or popping the ball straight up in theair! Harry Vardon himself can'tdrive with a mashie niblick!

"What are you beefin' about?" asked Windy. "Eight clubs, you said, andhere they are. Play or pay."

"Pay! Why, man alive, it's a catch bet—a cinch bet! It's not being donethis year at all! It's like stealing the money!"

"And you thought you could steal mine," was the cool reply. "You thoughtyou had a cinch bet, didn't you? Be honest now. Eight clubs, by theterms of the agreement, and you'll play with 'em or forfeit the fifty."

Cupid looked at the mashie niblicks and then he looked at Windy. Ilooked at him too and began to understand how he got his money. His facewas as hard as granite. "You'd collect that sort of a bet—from afriend?" It was Cupid's last shot.

"I'll write you a check," and Cupid turned on his heel and started forthe office.

Windy tried to turn it into a joke—after he got the check—but nobodyseemed to know where to laugh, and following that little incident hefound it a bit hard to get games. Whenever Windy was hunting a match thefoursomes were full and there was nothing doing. A sensitive man wouldhave suffered tortures, but Windy, with about as much delicacy as arhinoceros, continued to infest the course morning, noon, and night.When he couldn't find any one weak-minded enough to play with him heplayed with himself, and somehow managed to make just as much noise asever with only a caddie to talk to.

This was the state of affairs when Adolphus Kitts returned from theEast, barely in time to shoot a 91 in the qualifying round of the AnnualHandicap. We had hoped that he would miss this tournament, but no; therehe was, large as life—which is pretty large—and ugly as ever. Grim andsilent and nasty, he stepped out on No. 1 tee, and Cupid Cutts groanedas he watched him drive off.

"That fellow," said Cupid, "would hang his harp on the walls of the NewJerusalem and come back from the golden shore just to get into ahandicap event, where nobody wants him, nobody will speak to him, andevery one wishes him an ulcerated tooth! Why didn't he stay in theEast?"

There were about four hundred and seventy-six reasons why Adolphus wasunpopular with us; a few will suffice. In the first place, he was a cuphunter. He had an unholy passion for silver goblets and trophies withthe club emblem on them, and he preferred a small silver vase—worth notto exceed three dollars, wholesale—to the respect and admiration of hisfellow golfers. Heaven knows why he wanted trophies! They are never anygood unless a man has friends to show them to!

In the second place, Adolphus didn't care how he won a cup, and, asCupid used to say, the best club in his bag was the book of rules.

If you don't know it already, I must tell you that golf is the moststrictly governed game in the world, and also the most ceremonious. Itis as full of "thou shalt nots" as the commandments. There are rules foreverything and everybody on the course, and the breaking of a rulecarries a penalty with it—the loss of a stroke or the loss of a hole,as the case may be. Very few golfers play absolutely to the letter ofthe law; even those who know the rules incur penalties throughcarelessness, and in such a case it is not considered sporting to demandthe pound of flesh; but there was nothing sporting about Adolphus Kitts.

He knew every obscure rule and insisted on every penalty. Question him,and he fished out the book. That book of rules stiffened his match playtremendously, besides making his opponents want to murder him. It wasrather a rotten system, but Kitts hadn't a drop of sporting blood inhis whole big body, and the element of sportsmanship didn't enter intohis calculations at all. He claimed strokes and holes even when not incompetition, and because of this he found it difficult to obtainpartners or opponents.

"He's a golf lawyer, that's what he is—a technical lawyer!" said Cupidone day. "And I wouldn't even play the nineteenth hole with him—Iwouldn't, on a bet!"

Our Annual Handicap is the blue-ribbon event of the year so far as mostof us are concerned. The star players turn up their noses at it a bit,but that is only because they realise that they have a mighty slimchance to carry off the cup. The high-handicap men usually eliminate thecrack performers, which is the way it should be. What's the good of ahandicap event if a scratch man is to win it every year?

Sixty-four members qualify and are paired off into individual matches,which are played on handicaps, the losers dropping out. The man who"comes through" in the top half of the drawing meets the survivor of thelower half in the final match for the cup, which is always a veryhandsome and valuable trophy, calculated to rouse all the cupidity in acup hunter's nature.

When the pairings were posted on the bulletin board Kitts was in theupper half and Windy in the lower one. Kitts had a handicap of 8strokes, and was really entitled to 12, but Cupid wouldn't listen to hiswails of anguish. Windy was a 12 man, and nobody figured the tworenegades as dangerous until the sixty-four entrants had narrowed downto eight survivors. Kitts had won his matches by close margins, butWindy had simply smothered his opponents by lopsided scores, and therethey were, in the running and too close to the finals for comfort.

We began to sit up and take notice. Cupid read the riot act to Dawson,who was Windy's next opponent, and also had a talk with Aubrey, who wasto meet Kitts. "Wilkins and Kitts must be stopped!" raved Cupid. "Wedon't want 'em to get as far as the semi-finals, and it's up to youchaps to play your heads off and beat these rotters!"

Dawson and Aubrey saw their duty to the club, but that was as far asthey got with it. Windy talked from one end of his match to the otherand made Dawson so nervous that any one could have beaten him, and Kittspulled the book of rules on Aubrey and literally read him out of thecontest.

After this the interest in the tournament grew almost painful.Overholzer and Watts were the other semifinalists, and we told themplainly that they might as well resign from the club if they did not wintheir matches. Overholzer spent a solid week practicing on his approachshots, and Watts carried his putter home with him nights, but it wasn'tthe slightest use. Windy tossed an 83 at Overholzer, along with a lot ofnoisy conversation, and an 83 will beat Overholzer every time he starts.Poor Watts went off his drive entirely and gave such a pitifulexhibition that Kitts didn't need the rule book at all.

And there we were, down to the finals for the beautiful handicap cup,sixty-two good men and true eliminated, and a pair of bounders lined upagainst each other for the trophy!

"This," said Cupid Cutts, "is a most unfortunate situation. I can't rootfor a sure-thing gambler and daylight highwayman like Wilkins, and asfor the other fellow I hope he falls into a bunker and breaks both hishind legs off short! Think of one of those fellows carrying home thatlovely cup! Ain't it enough to make you sick?"

It made us all sick, nevertheless quite a respectable gallery assembledto watch Wilkins and Kitts play their match.

"Looks like we're goin' to have a crowd for the main event!" said Windy,who had put in the entire morning practicing tee shots. "In that caseI'll buy everybody a little drink, or sign a lunch card—whatever'scustomary. Don't be bashful, boys. Might as well drink with the winnerbefore as well as after, you know!"

At this point Adolphus came in from the locker room and there was anembarrassed silence, broken at last by Windy. "Somebody introduce me tomy victim," said he. "We've never met."

"You don't tell me!" exclaimed Cupid. "Of all the men in this club, I'dthink you fellows ought to know each other! Kitts, this isWilkins—shake hands and get together!"

Among the other reasons for not liking him, Adolphus had a face. I'maware that a man cannot help his face, but he can make it easier to lookat by wearing a pleasant expression now and then. Kitts seldom used hisface to smile with. As he turned to shake hands with Windy I noticedthat his left hip pocket bulged a trifle, and I knew that Adolphus wastaking no chances. That's where he carries the book of rules.

"Oh, don't be in such a hurry!" said Wilkins. "We've got a lot of drinkscomin' here. Sit down and have one."

"Well, then, have a sandwich. Might as well load up; you've got a hardafternoon ahead of you."

"Then let's talk a little," urged Windy. "Let's get acquainted. This isthe first time I ever had a whack at a cup, and I don't know how to act.I play golf by main strength and awkwardness, but I get there just thesame. They tell me you're a great man for rules."

Windy paused, but Kitts didn't say anything, and Cupid stepped on myfoot under the table.

"Now, I don't go very strong on the rules," continued Windy wheedlingly."I like to play a sporty game—count all my shots, of course—but damnthis technical stuff is whatI say. For instance, if you shouldaccidentally tap your ball when you was addressin' it, and it shouldturn over, I wouldn't call a stroke on you. I'd be ashamed to do it. IfI win, I want to win on myplayin' and not on any technicalities.Ain't that the way you feel about it, hey?"

Kitts looked uncomfortable, but he wouldn't return a straight answer tothe question. He said something about hoping the best man would win, andwent out to get his clubs.

"Cheerful kind of a party, ain't he?" said Windy. "I've told him where Istand.I ain't goin' to claim anything on him if his foot slips, andhe oughtn't to claim anything onme. If he's a real sport, he won't.What do you boys think?"

"Well," said Windy, getting up and stretching, "he's got to start me 2up, on handicap, and I'm drivin' like a fool. I should worry about histechnicalities!"

III

Our No. 1 hole is somewhere around 450 yards, and the average player isvery well satisfied if he fetches the putting green on his third shot.It is uphill all the way, with a bunker to catch a topped drive, roughto the right and left to punish pulls and slices, and sand pits guardingthe green. Windy drove first, talking all the time he was on the tee.

"Hope the gallery doesn't make you nervous, Kitts.I always drive bestwhen people are watchin' me, but then I've got plenty of nerve, theysay. You may not like my stance, but watch this one sail! And when Iaddress the ball I address it in a few brief, burnin' words, like this:'Take a ride, you little white devil, take a ride!'" Whis-sh! Click! Andthe little white devil certainly took a ride—long, low, and straight upthe middle of the course—the ideal ball, with just enough hook on it tomake it run well after it struck the ground. "Two hundred and sixtyyards if it's an inch!" said Windy, grinning at Kitts. "Lay your pillbeside that one—if you think you can!"

"You're a 12-handicap man—and you drive like that!" said Kitts, whichwas, of course, a neat slap at Cupid, who was within earshot.

"Cutts is a friend of mine," bragged Windy. "That's why I'm a 12 man. Ireally play to a 6."

Kitts saw that he wasn't going to get any goats with conversationalleads, so he shut up and teed his ball. He was one of those deliberateplayers who must make just so many motions before they pull off theirshots. First he took his stance and his practice swings; then he movedup on the ball and addressed it; then he waggled his club back and forthover it, looking up the course after every waggle, as if picking out anice spot; then, when he had annoyed everybody, and Windy most of all,he sent a perfectly atrocious slice into the rough beyond the bunker.

"Humph!" grunted Wilkins. "A lot of preparation for such a rotten shot!Looks like I'm 3 up and 17 to go. Probably won't be much of acontest——"

"Do you expect to win it with your mouth?" snapped Kitts, and Windywinked at the rest of us.

"His goat is loose already!" said he in a stage whisper. "He can't standthe gaff!"

Adolphus got out of the tall grass on his third shot, but dropped hisfourth into a deep sand pit short of the green.

"With a lot of luck," said Windy, reaching for his brassy, "you may getan 8—but I doubt it. Pretty soft for me, pretty soft!" And with thesole of his club he patted the turf behind his ball, smoothing itdown—three gentle little pats. "Pret-ty soft!" murmured Windy, and sentthe ball whistling straight on to the green for a sure 4. Then he turnedto Kitts. "D'you give up?" said he. "Might just as well; you haven't gota burglar's chance!"

"Rule No. 10," said Kitts, beginning to read. "'In playing through thegreen, irregularities of surface which could in any way affect theplayer's stroke shall not be removed nor pressed down by the player——'You patted the grass behind your ball and improved the lie by smoothingit down. I claim the hole."

Windy went about the colour of a nice ripe Satsuma plum. His neckswelled so much that his ears moved outward. "You don't mean to say thatyou're goin' to call a thing like that on me when you're already lickedfor the hole?" He spoke slowly, as if he found it hard to believe thatthe situation was real.

"I claim it," repeated Adolphus monotonously. "You can appeal to Mr.Cutts, as chairman of the greens committee."

"Hey, Fatty! All I did was pat the grass a few times with my club, andthis—thisgentleman here says he claims the hole."

"You violated the rule," shortly answered Cupid, who may be fat but doesnot like to be reminded of it so publicly.

"And you're goin' to let him get away with that?" demanded Windy. "I'mon the green in two, and he's neck-deep in the sand on his fourth——"

"Makes no difference," said Cupid, turning away. "You ought to know therules by now. Kitts wins the hole."

Well, Windy finally accepted the situation, but he was in a savage frameof mind—so savage that he walked all the way to the second tee withoutopening his mouth. There he stepped aside, with a low bow to Kitts.

No. 2 is a short hole—a drive and a pitch. Windy got a good ball, andit rolled almost to the edge of the green. Kitts's drive was short butstraight, and he pitched his second to the green, some thirty feet fromthe pin, and the advantage seemed to be with Windy until it wasdiscovered that his ball was lying in a cuppy depression of the turf.

"That's lovely, ain't it?" growled Windy. "A fine drive—and look atthis for a lie! I was goin' to use a putter, but a putter won't get theball out of there. Hey, Fatty, had I better use a niblick here?"

"But I haven't done anything!" howled Windy. "How can you claim the holewhen I haven't played the shot?"

"You asked advice," said Kitts, reading. "'A player may not ask for norwillingly receive advice from any one except his own caddie, hispartner, or his partner's caddie.' This is not a foursome, so you haveno partner. Advice is defined as any suggestion which could influence aplayer in determining the line of play, in the choice of a club, or inthe method of making a stroke. You asked whether you should use aniblick—and you lose the hole."

Windy, knocked speechless for once in his life, looked over at Cupid,and Cupid nodded his head.

"And squared by a couple of petty larceny protests!" said Windy. "Hey,Mister Bookworm, wait a minute! I want to tell you something for yourown good!"

"That's exactly what I want to say.You play golf, Mr. Kitts! Play itwith your clubs, and forget that book in your hip pocket. If you pull iton me again, I'll—I'll——"

"Maybe not," said Windy, quite earnestly, "but I can lick you within aninch of your life—and I will. Is there anything in the book aboutthat? If you read me out of this cup, you better make arrangements tohave it sent direct to the hospital. It'll make a nice flower holder—ifyou've got any friends that think enough of you to send flowers!"

"You gentlemen are witnesses to these threats," said Kitts, appealing tothe gallery.

"We didn't hear a word," said Cupid. "Not a word. Go on and play yourmatch and stop squabbling. You act like a couple of fishwives!"

The contestants walked off in the direction of the tee, with Windy stillrubbing it in.

"A word to the wise. Keep that damn' book in your pocket, if you don'twant to eat it—cover and all!"

"Suppose they do mix it?" said Cupid, mopping his brow. "Sweet littlegolfing scandal, eh? Can't you see the headlines in the newspapers?'Country Club finalists in fist fight on links!' And some of theseroughneck humourists will congratulate us on golf becoming one of thevital, red-blooded sports! Oh, lovely!"

"Bah!" said I. "There will be no fight. No man will fight who smileslike a coyote when he is getting a call down."

"But a coyote will fight if you put it up to him, don't make any mistakeabout that. And Kitts will spring the book on Windy again, I feel it inmy bones, and if he does—choose your partners for the one-step! Oh, whydid we ever let these rotters into the club?"

I see no reason for inflicting upon you a detailed description of thenext fifteen holes of golfing frightfulness. Golf is a game whichrequires mental calm, and the contestants were entirely out of calmnessafter the second hole and could not concentrate on their shots.

Windy began driving all over the shop, hooking and slicing tremendously,and Kitts manhandled his irons in a manner fit to make a hardenedprofessional weep. Neither of them could have holed a five-foot putt ina washtub, and they staggered along side by side, silent and nervous andsavage, and if Windy managed to win a hole Kitts would be sure to takethe next one and square the match. But he didn't take any holes with thebook. When Windy broke a rule—which he did every little while—Kittswould sneer and pretend to look the other way. He tried to convey theimpression that it was pity and contempt that made him blind to Windy'slapses, but he didn't fool me for a minute. It was fear of consequences.

Our eighteenth has a vicious reputation among those golfing unfortunateswho slice their tee shots. The drive must carry a steep hill, the rightslope of which pitches away to a deep, narrow ravine—a ravine scarredand marred by thousands of niblick shots, but otherwise as disgustedNature left it. We call it Hell's Half Acre, though the first part ofthe name would be quite sufficient.

The only improvements that have ever been made in this sinister localityhave been made by golf clubs, despairingly wielded. Hell's Half Acre isfull of stunted trees with roots half out of the ground, and thick brushand matted weeds, and squarely in the middle of this desolation is adeep sink, or pit, known as the Devil's Kitchen. Hell's Half Acre is badenough, believe one who knows, but the Devil's Kitchen is the last hardword in hazards, and it is a crime to allow such a plague spot within amile of a golf course.

At a respectful distance we watched the renegades drive from theeighteenth tee. Kitts had the honour—if there is any honour in winninga four hole in eight strokes—and messed about over his ball even longerthan usual. His drive developed a lovely curve to the right, and wentskipping and bounding down the hill toward the ravine.

"And that'll be in the Kitchen unless something stops it!" said Cupidwith a sigh of relief. "I was afraid the blighters might halve this oneand need extra holes!"

Now with Adolphus in the Devil's Kitchen all Windy needed was a straightball over the brow of the hill—in fact, a ball anywhere on the coursewould be almost certain to win the hole and the match—but when hewalked out on the tee it was plain to be seen that he had lostconfidence in his wooden club. Any golfer knows what it means to loseconfidence in his wood, and Windy had reason to doubt his driver. Histee shots had been fearfully off direction, and here was one thathadto go straight.

He teed his ball, swung his club a couple of times, and shook his head.Then he yelled at his caddie.

Now, a cleek is a wonderful club if a man knows how to use one, but itproduces a low tee shot, as a general thing. It produced one forWindy—a screamer, flying with the speed of a rifle bullet. I thought atfirst that it was barely going to clear the top of the hill, but Imisjudged it. Three feet higher and the ball would have been over, butit struck the ground and kicked abruptly to the right, disappearing inthe direction of the Devil's Kitchen. We heard a crashing noise. It wasWindy splintering his cleek shaft over the tee box.

We arrived on the rim of the Kitchen and peered into that wildamphitheatre. Kitts had already found his ball, and was staring at itwith an expression of dumb anguish on his face. It was lying underneatha tangle of sturdy oak roots, as safely protected as if an octopus wastrying to hatch something out of it.

Windy was combing the weeds which grew on the abrupt sides of the pit,too full of his own trouble to pay any attention to his opponent.

But it wasn't. Windy found it, half-way up the left slope, hidden in theweeds, and not a particularly bad lie except for the fact that nothinghuman could have taken a stance on that declivity. Having found hisball, Windy took a look at Kitts's lie and then, for the first and onlytime in his golfing career, Wilkins recognised the rules of the game."You're away, sir," said he to Kitts. "Play!"

Adolphus took his niblick and attacked the octopus. His first threestrokes did not even jar the ball, but they damaged the oak roots beyondrepair. On his eighth attempt the ball popped out of its nest, and thenext shot was a very pretty one, sailing up and out to the fair green,but there was no applause from the gallery.

A man may play nine strokes in a hazard, but he hates to admit it.Adolphus grunted and withdrew to the other side of the pit, from whichpoint he watched Windy morosely. With victory in sight the latter becamecheerful again; conversation bubbled out of him.

"Boy, slip me the niblick and get up yonder on the edge of the ravinewhere you can watch this ball. I'm goin' to knock it a mile out of here.Ten shots he's had. If it was me, I'd give up. How am I to get afootin' on this infernal side hill? Spikes won't hold in that stuff.Wish I was a goat. Aha! The very thing!"

Suddenly he delivered a powerful blow at the slope some distance belowhis ball and three or four feet to the left of it. Cupid gasped andopened his mouth to say something, but I nudged him and he subsided,clucking like a nervous hen.

"To make little boys ask questions," was the calm reply. "I climbed theAlps once. Had to dig holes for my feet. Guess I haven't forgotten how,but diggin' with a blasted niblick is hard work."

Windy continued to hack at the wall, the gallery looking on in tensesilence. Nobody would have offered a suggestion; we all felt that it wastheir own affair, and on the knees of the gods, as the saying is. WhenWindy had hacked out a place for his right foot he cut another one forhis left. The weeds were tough and the soil was hard, and he grunted ashe worked.

"Yep—that Alps trip—taught me something. Comes in—handy now. Prettynifty—job, hey?"

I suppose a mountain climber would have called it a nifty job. Cupidbegan to mutter.

With the shaft of his niblick in his teeth, Windy swarmed up the sideof the wall, found the footholds and planted himself solidly. Grasping abush above his head with his left hand, he measured the distance withhis eye, steadied himself and swung the niblick with his powerful rightarm. It was a wonderful shot, even if Windy Wilkins did make it; theball went soaring skyward, far beyond all trouble.

"Some—out!" he panted, looking over his shoulder at Kitts. "I guessthat'll clinch the match!"

For just a second Adolphus hesitated; then he must have thought of thecup. "I rather think it will," said he. "You're nicely out, Wilkins—inforty-seven strokes."

"In a hazard," quoted Kitts, "the club shall not touch the ground, norshall anything be touched or moved before the player strikes at theball." At this point Adolphus made a serious mistake; he reached for thebook. "Under the rule," he continued, "I could claim the hole on you,but I won't do that. I'll only count the strokes you took in chopping astance for yourself——"

That was where Windy dropped the niblick and jumped at him, and Cupidwas correct about the coyote. Put him in a hole where he can't get out,attack him hard enough, and hewill fight.

Adolphus dropped the book and nailed Windy on the chin with a rightupper cut that jarred the whole Wilkins family.

"Keep out of it, everybody!" yelled Cupid with a sudden flash ofinspiration. "It's an elimination contest! More power to both of'em—and may they both lose!"

Inside of two seconds the whole floor of the Devil's Kitchen waslittered up with fists and elbows and boots and knees. They fought intoclinches and battered their way out of them; they tripped over roots andscrambled to their feet again; they tossed all rules to the winds exceptthe rule of self-preservation. The air was full of heartfelt grunts andsounds as of some one beating a rag carpet, and the language whichfloated to us was—well, elemental, to say the least. And through it allthe gallery looked down in decent silence; there was no favourite forwhom any one cared to cheer.

When Windy came toiling up out of the pit alone, but one remark wasaddressed to him.

"Huh?" said Windy, pausing. His coat was torn off his back, his soiledwhite trousers were out at the knees, his nose was bleeding freely, andhis mouth was lopsided.

"Aren't you going to finish the match? You've only played 46. Kitts madea mistake in the count."

"Finish—hell!" snarled Windy. "You roosted up here like a lot ofbuzzards and let me chop myself out of the contest! I feel likefinishin' the lot of you, and I'm through with any club that'll let aswine like Kitts be a member!"

Oddly enough, this last statement was substantially the same as the oneAdolphus made when he recovered consciousness.

The wily Cupid, concealing from each the intentions of the other, andbecoming a bearer of pens, ink, and paper, managed to secure both theirresignations before they left the clubhouse that evening, and peace nowreigns at the Country Club.

We have been given to understand that in the future the committee onmembership will require gilt-edged certificates of character and that norough diamonds need apply.

Nobody won the handicap cup, and nobody knows what to do with it, thoughthere is some talk of having it engraved as follows:

Other Fiction

ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYS

STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER

MICHAEL O'HALLORAN. Illustrated by Frances Rogers.

Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in NorthernIndiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumesthe responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward andonward.

LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.

This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The storyis told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but itis concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairsof older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie andthe Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhoodand about whose family there hangs a mystery.

THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.

"The Harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book hadnothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable.But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," there begins a romanceof the rarest idyllic quality.

FRECKLES. Illustrated.

Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which hetakes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the greatLimberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs tothe charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "TheAngel" are full of real sentiment.

A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated.

The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type ofthe self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindnesstowards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty ofher soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren andunpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.

AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors.

The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. Thestory is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love.The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, andits pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all.

THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. Profusely illustrated.

THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART

DANGEROUS DAYS.

A brilliant story of married life. A romance of finepurpose and stirring appeal.

THE AMAZING INTERLUDE. Illustrations by The Kinneys.

The story of a great love which cannot be pictured—aninterlude—amazing, romantic.

LOVE STORIES.

This book is exactly what its title indicates, a collection of loveaffairs—sparkling with humor, tenderness and sweetness.

"K." Illustrated.

K. LeMoyne, famous surgeon, goes to live in a little town wherebeautiful Sidney Page lives. She is in training to become a nurse. Thejoys and troubles of their young love are told with keen and sympatheticappreciation.

THE MAN IN LOWER TEN. Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.

An absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the"Man in Lower Ten."

WHEN A MAN MARRIES. Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker.

A young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that hisaunt is soon to visit him. The aunt, who contributes to the familyincome, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. How the young man metthe situation is entertainingly told.

THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE. Illustrated by Lester Ralph.

The occupants of "Sunnyside" find the dead body of Arnold Armstrong onthe circular staircase. Following the murder a bank failure isannounced. Around these two events is woven a plot o£ absorbinginterest.

THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS. (Photoplay Edition.)

Harmony Wells, studying in Vienna to be a great violinist, suddenlyrealizes that her money is almost gone. She meets a young ambitiousdoctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together withworld-worn Dr. Anna and Jimmie, the waif, they share their love andslender means.

BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS

SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.

No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal youngpeople of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of thetime when the reader was Seventeen.

PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant.

This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous,tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is afinished, exquisite work.

PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm.

Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phasesof real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishnessthat have ever been written.

THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.

Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against hisfather's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of afine girl turns Bibbs' life from failure to success.

THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece.

A story of love and politics,—more especially a picture of a countryeditor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the loveinterest.

THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.

The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement,drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads anotherto lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromisingsuitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.

KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES

SISTERS. Frontispiece by Frank Street.

The California Redwoods furnish the background for this beautiful storyof sisterly devotion and sacrifice.

POOR, DEAR, MARGARET KIRBY. Frontispiece by George Gibbs.

A collection of delightful stories, including "Bridging the Years" and"The Tide-Marsh." This story is now shown in moving pictures.

JOSSELYN'S WIFE. Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.

MARTIE, THE UNCONQUERED. Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers.

THE HEART OF RACHAEL. Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.

An interesting story of divorce and the problems that come with a secondmarriage.

THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.

A sympathetic portrayal of the quest of a normal girl, obscure andlonely, for the happiness of life.

SATURDAY'S CHILD. Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.

Can a girl, born in rather sordid conditions, lift herself through sheerdetermination to the better things for which her soul hungered?

MOTHER. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.

A story of the big mother heart that beats in the background of everygirl's life, and some dreams which came true.

SEWELL FORD'S STORIES

SHORTY McCABE. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.

A very humorous story. The hero, an independent and vigorous thinker,sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way.

SIDE-STEPPING WITH SHORTY. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.

Twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. Sympathy with humannature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for"side-stepping with Shorty."

SHORTY McCABE ON THE JOB. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.

Shorty McCabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up tothe minute. He aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund,"and gives joy to all concerned.

SHORTY McCABE'S ODD NUMBERS. Illustrated by Francis Vaux Wilson.

These further chronicles of Shorty McCabe tell of his studio forphysical culture, and of his experiences both on the East side and atswell yachting parties.

TORCHY. Illus, by Geo. Biehm and Jas. Montgomery Flagg.

A red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to theyouths reared on the sidewalks of New York, tells the story of hisexperiences.

TRYING OUT TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.

Torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in theprevious book.

ON WITH TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.

Torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," butthat young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart,which brings about many hilariously funny situations.

TORCHY, PRIVATE SEC. Illustrated by F. Foster Lincoln.

Torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary forthe Corrugated Iron Company. The story is full of humor and infectiousAmerican slang.

WILT THOU TORCHY. Illustrated by F. Snapp and A. W. Brown.

Torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the Florida West Coast,in company with a group of friends of the Corrugated Trust and with hisfriend's aunt, on which trip Torchy wins the aunt's permission to placean engagement ring on Vee's finger.

ELEANOR H. PORTER'S NOVELS

JUST DAVID

The tale of a loveable boy and the place he comes to fill in the heartsof the gruff farmer folk to whose care he is left.

THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING

OH, MONEY! MONEY!

Stanley Fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to test the dispositions of hisrelatives, sends them each a check for $100,000, and then as plain JohnSmith comes among them to watch the result of his experiment.

SIX STAR RANCH

DAWN

The story of a blind boy whose courage leads him through the gulf ofdespair into a final victory gained by dedicating his life to theservice of blind soldiers.

ACROSS THE YEARS

Short stories of our own kind and of our own people. Contains some ofthe best writing Mrs. Porter has done.

THE TANGLED THREADS

In these stories we find the concentrated charm and tenderness of allher other books.

THE TIE THAT BINDS

Intensely human stories told with Mrs. Porter's wonderful talent forwarm and vivid character drawing.

ETHEL M. DELL'S NOVELS

THE LAMP IN THE DESERT

The scene of this splendid story is laid in India and tells of the lampof love that continues to shine through all sorts of tribulations tofinal happiness.

GREATHEART

THE HUNDREDTH CHANCE

THE SWINDLER

THE TIDAL WAVE

THE SAFETY CURTAIN

A very vivid love story of India. The volume also contains four otherlong stories of equal interest.

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HOLES	PAR	PEACOCK
1	4	11
2	4	9
3	4	8
4	5	8
5	3	7
6	6	15
7	5	9
8	4	8
9	4	12
10	5	12
11	3	7
12	4	8
13	4	9
14	3	7
15	4	8
16	4	9
17	5	11
18	5	9
	—	——
Total	76	167

Movatterモバイル変換

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofFore!

FORE!

BY CHARLES E. VAN LOAN

AUTHOR OF BUCK PARVIN AND THE MOVIES, TAKING THE COUNT, SCORE BYINNINGS,Etc.

GROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

COPYRIGHT, 1918,BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

Copyright, 1914, 1916, by P. F. Collier & Son

Copyright, 1917, 1918, by The Curtis Publishing Company

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

GENTLEMEN, YOU CAN'T GO THROUGH!

I

II

III

IV

LITTLE POISON IVY

I

II

III

IV

THE MAJOR, D.O.S.

I

II

III

IV

A MIXED FOURSOME

I

II

III

IV

"SIMILIA SIMILIBUS CURANTUR"

I

II

III

IV

A CURE FOR LUMBAGO

I

II

III

IV

THE MAN WHO QUIT

I

II

III

THE OOLEY-COW

I

II

III

IV

V

ADOLPHUS AND THE ROUGH DIAMOND

I

II

III

IV

Other Fiction

ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYS

STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER

MICHAEL O'HALLORAN. Illustrated by Frances Rogers.

LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.

THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.

FRECKLES. Illustrated.

A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated.

AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors.

THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. Profusely illustrated.

THE NOVELS OF MARY ROBERTS RINEHART

DANGEROUS DAYS.

THE AMAZING INTERLUDE. Illustrations by The Kinneys.

LOVE STORIES.

"K." Illustrated.

THE MAN IN LOWER TEN. Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy.

WHEN A MAN MARRIES. Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Mayo Bunker.

THE CIRCULAR STAIRCASE. Illustrated by Lester Ralph.

THE STREET OF SEVEN STARS. (Photoplay Edition.)

BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS

SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.

PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant.

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT, 1918,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY