to stare while he counted three at the spot where the ball had rested before he hit it, he'd do even better. And Chapman, hardly smiling, replied in a tone which was cousin to insult:

"Perhaps if you play your game, Mr. Mott, and let me play mine, we 'll get along well enough as it is."

Mr. Mott would n't have been human if he had n't taken seven on the next hole, and he would n't have been human if he had n't experienced a thrill of primitive. triumph when Chapman not only sliced his drive, but also his full mid-iron. Granted that his approach was moderately efficient, Chapman deserved nothing better than a seven, or possibly a six, with divine aid; but when he putted wretchedly off direction, and the ball, deflected by the agency of an unseen slope, curled sharply in toward the cup, and tottered to the lip of it, and dropped, Mr. Mott compressed his lips and said nothing. He realized that comment was superfluous; when a man had that sort of luck, which simply compensated for two earlier mistakes, there was nothing for a righteously indignant opponent to say.

But when Chapman achieved a perfect Idrive on the thirteenth Mr. Mott burst with information.

"That's the queerest thing I ever saw in my life!"

"What is?"

"Why, that ball was straight as a die! And you stood for a slice!"

"No!" said Chapman.

"But-why, certainly you did. I 'd have told you, but you'd begun your swing, and I was afraid of spoiling your shot. It's the funniest thing. Where am I, caddy?"

"In the pit," said the ruminating caddy. By the time he got out, he perceived that his companion had finished, and was sitting on the bench in the shade. Highly offended at the discourtesy, Mr. Mott whistled to demonstrate his independence, and utilized an unconscionable length of time in his study of topography. To do him justice, he was n't seeking to retaliate: he was resolved that by his own ex

cellence in the short game he would display his lack of nerves and his imperturbability in a trying moment. The man whose partner has played out rather than to wait politely while sand-pits are under exploration is subject to an adjustment of poise; and although Mr. Mott had the satisfaction of leaving no loophole for criticism, he was nevertheless too fundamentally introspective to drive well on the dog-leg fourteenth.

Furthermore, although the region immediately surrounding his ball was n't placarded as ground under repair when Mr. Mott began his onslaught upon the turf, it was indubitably in need of repair when Mr. Mott got through with it. He quarried out a blanket of gravelly soil at each of four desperate offensives, and when he toiled wearily up the hillside to the green he had three putts for an eleven, and he was aware that Chapman, whether befriended or betrayed by fortune, slice or no slice, had beaten him by a margin of many strokes.

But the sun was setting, the end was near, and Chapman was a new member. Mr. Mott relaxed somewhat, tore his score-card to bits, and scattered them on the grass.

"No use keeping that any more," he said. "I can't putt on these plowed fields they call greens. They 're a disgrace to the club, that 's what they are. Now, this is what I call a beautiful hole. Four hundred and thirty-over beyond the farthest line of trees. Par five; it ought to be par six."

"Why?"

Mr. Mott was mildly astonished. "Because it's a hard hole." "But par 's arbitrary, Mr. Mott." "Yes, but the greens committee-" "The greens committee has n't anything to do with it. Any hole up to 225 yards is par three, from 226 to 425 is par four, from 426 to 600 is par five. If this is 430 yards, it has to be par five."

Mr. Mott blinked at the sun.
"What makes you think that?"
"I know it."

"Well, I may be wrong, but my impres

sion is that the greens committee fixes the par for the different holes. Anyway, here goes!"

"Nice ball!" said Chapman.
Mr. Mott smiled conciliatingly.

"Tommy Carrigan made that driver for me," he said. "It's a pippin. As soon as I swing I can feel I 'm going to hit it clean. I beg your pardon! Did I take your mind off shot?" your

"It was a screamer," said Mr. Mott, unaware of the inference to be drawn from the compliment. "As good a drive as I've seen in a month."

To his immense gratification, he was hole-high on his second shot, and home on his third. He compelled himself to plan. for two putts, to insure himself a par five instead of risking all on a bold steal which might prove, by metamorphosis, to be a gift to the devil. In consequence he very nearly holed out, and he was far too enraptured to care what Chapman got. Chapman had manhandled his chip shot, and Mr. Mott had n't noticed the others. Let Chapman account for himself. Par five!

According to the custom duly laid down in such cases, Mr. Mott took many practice swings on the sixteenth tee. Temporarily, he had struck his head upon the stars, and with the pride of a champion. he swung with a champion's ease and freedom. Par five! Mr. Mott, with the image of the Vardon statue hovering before his eyes, clipped bits of turf from the scarred tee and ogled the green. Carrigan had overdriven it; it was n't much more than three hundred yards. And the morass directly before the tee, the trap to the left, and the rough to the right, what were they? Who but novices were to be alarmed by the puny hazards such as these? Surely not one who has made the long fifteenth in a par five!

Mr. Mott drove magnificently, and started hastily over the foot-bridge, then halted at the pleasant laughter of his companion, and shamefacedly stood aside. He never looked to see where Chapman drove; his consciousness was riveted upon a small white object far up on the slope. And since, during his walk, he told himself exactly how he should play his approach, how he should stand, how he should swing, he later stood and swung without destructive uncertainty, and so pitched prettily to the pin.

"Three!" whispered Mr. Mott to himself. "One under par! One under par

for two holes! Gosh! If I had n't been so rotten up to the fifteenth I 'd have had a chance!" Aloud, he said: "Par four 's too much for this hole. It ought to be three. What was yours?"

"Four," said Chapman. "Your approach was too good; it was a wonder." "Pure wrist shot. Notice how I took the club back? Sort of scoop the ball up -pick it up clean? That's what I 've been working for-pick 'em up clean with lots of back spin. You get that by sort of sliding under the ball. Well, two more to go!"

"Let's make 'em good!" adjured Chap

man.

"One under par for two holes," thought Mr. Mott, slashing a low drive to the open. "Say, I guess Chick Evans would n't turn up his nose at that, eh? A five and a three! I was-let's see-thirtyeight for five holes, and a five and a three make forty-six. Oh, I beg your pardon!" He was wool-gathering squarely in front of Chapman, who presently put a sliced ball somewhat beyond Mr. Mott's. "Gosh, what a wonderful day for golf!" said Mr. Mott, enthusiastically. "Not a breath of wind, not too hot, just right."

"Suits me. You got a nice drive there."

"Too high," said Mr. Mott, judgmatically. He played a jumping shot which ran briskly over the shallow pit guarding the green, and came to a standstill not twenty feet from the cup. He putted, and was dead. He holed out with neatness and precision, and knew that he had beaten Chapman by a stroke. "Gad, what a green!" said Mr. Mott, pop-eyed. "Like a billiard-table. We 've got an English greenskeeper; he's a wonder. Sleepy Hollow and Pine Valley have nothing on us."

"You 're finishing strong, Mr. Mott. Go to it!"

"One under par for three holes," shouted Mr. Mott's dual personality to Mr. Mott. "And-how many am I to here?" To Chapman he said, "I 'm trying to remember-what did I have on the tenth?"

"Six," said Chapman.

"I can name every stroke you 've played since you started," said Chapman. "It gets to be second nature after a while. I know every shot we 've both played." Mr. Mott looked doubtful. "What was my fourth shot on the fourth hole?"

"Brassy to the green," said Chapman. "You got a six."

"Well, I'll be-what did I make on the seventh hole?" "Seven."

"Well, what was my third shot on the tenth?"

"Just a minute-why, a topped mashy into the trap. You were on in four and down in six." Mr. Mott prepared to drive. "Do you always remember

scores like that?"

"Always."

Mr. Mott drove far down the fairway. Exalted and emboldened, he ventured to explain briefly just how he had done it. Then when Chapman had hit a long, low ball which developed a faint slice as it dipped to the hollows, Mr. Mott was constrained to offer condolence.

"If you just get that kink out of your shots you'll play under a hundred," he stated flatly.

"Well, I hope so."

"Nothing in the world but slow wrist. action. Look! You don't see me slicing many balls, do you? Watch how I get my wrists into this one!" He was unerringly on the line, and Chapman nodded understandingly.

"You could n't ask anything better than that."

"And the best of it is," said Mr. Mott, glowing, "that I always know what's the matter with me. I know just how you feel. Now go after this one! Easy-and follow through! Oh-too bad!"

"It's safe, is n't it?"

"Yes, it's almost up to the brook; but if you 'd gone into the woods, it would have been a lost ball. This way!" Mr. Mott illustrated once more. "Here she goes!" And he made his third consecutive shot which was without reproach.

Chapman, however, sliced even with his full mashy, which was barely off the green, and Mr. Mott sighed for him. For himself, he ran up alongside. If he could go down in two more, he would have played the last four holes in par! Mr. Mott reached for his putter, and took it tremblingly. He bent over the ball, and observed that it was smaller than he had suspected. The hole, too, was impossibly small. Mr. Mott's lips formed the word "Fore!" and he tapped impotently. The ball rolled in, swerved, struck a transient leaf, and Mr. Mott, his mind erased of any conception of a partner, or of the etiquette of the links, dashed forward. Two feet to the cup, two feet for a six, and the last four holes in par! Fifty-six for the last nine-his record! Mr. Mott, gasping, clutched the putter, and struck. blindly, and heard the click of the contact, and saw a yawning gulf, lined with zinc, open wide to receive the Silver King. He stood up, choked with emotion.

"The-the last four holes in-in par!" he faltered.

"Hold the flag, boy!" said Chapman. Mr. Mott watched, fascinated. Inwardly he knew, before Chapman putted, that the stroke was too light; and as the lanky stranger strolled up for further trial, Mr. Mott, in his terrific success, blurted out his final charge.

"If you don't mind my telling you," he said, "rest your right hand on your knee, and-"

The ball rattled into the cup. From a camp-chair under the awning, Anderton, the club champion, rose and sauntered toward them.

"Mr. Chapman!" said Mr. Mott. "Thank you, Mr. Mott." They shook hands.

"I was par for the last four holes! Listen! If you did n't slice so much"Yes?"

"Well, you saw what I did. I came back in fifty-six, and the last four in par! Why, if you can play an even game with

me now

"Fine!" said Mr. Mott. "If he only did n't slice so much! How did we come out? I was 119, and you—"

"Seventy-nine," said Chapman.

"No! You could n't have been as bad as that! Why—”

"Seventy-nine for eighteen holes," said Chapman, quietly.

Mr. Mott's eyes widened. His mouth sagged. A spot of color appeared above his cheek-bones.

"Why, that 's impossible. That 's-" "Thirty-five for first nine, and forty for the last."

Mr. Mott shook as though with palsy, and the putter fell from his hands.

"Why, I thought we were about even." "Count 'em up," said Chapman, soberly. "5, 5, 4, 5, 5, 2, 4, 4, 5; is n't that 39? 5, 4, 4, 2, 6, 5, 4, 5, 5; is n't that 40?" "You-you did n't get a two on the thirteenth!"

"I holed out while you were in the pit." It occurred to Mr. Mott that on only one or two holes had he taken heed of Chapman's shots except to note that the majority of them were sliced. Now that he flogged his memory for the facts, he seemed dimly to recognize that even those swerving shots had gone off smoothly, and that Chapman had approached sweetly, and putted with distinction. But seventynine! And he had volunteered to coach this man; he had showed him in detail how various shots should be made; he had claimed the privilege of instructing a stranger who had hit hardly a straight ball, and still scored under eighty.

"Wh-what's your handicap?" he stammered.

Anderton put his arm over the shoulders of the lanky stranger.

"He had three in New England," he said, "but in the Met. I suppose they'll give him four. How were you going, Mr. Mott?"

"Oh, pretty fair-for me," said Mr. Mott, feebly.

BUT as he left the club-house his heart was

from his mind all thought of his partner's