performance; he was sustained and soothed by the remembrance of the last nine holes in fifty-six, and the last four in par. He felt a sturdy manhood, confident and unafraid. To-day he had scored 119; to-morrow it might be that he, too, should play the full round as he had played the last four holes to-day; upon such dreams are founded the wealth of the athletic outfitters. The fear of hazards had gone from him. Timidity on the greens was a thing of the past. If he could lower his average to 110 by the end of the season,-and with four holes in par he could conceivably do five next Saturday, or six or seven, -he might get down to, say, ninety by next year. And par for the course was a mere seventy-three. If a fourteen-year-old boy could do it, why not Mr. Mott? If a chronic slicer could crack eighty, why not Mr. Mott? He saw roseate visions of himself at scratch; Walter Travis was middle-aged before he took up the game.

"The last four in par!" whispered Mr. Mott as he went up the steps of his house. "Well," said Mrs. Mott, pathetically, as she came to greet him, "was it worth a

thousand dollars for you, Val, to stay away all this afternoon?"

"Every cent of it!" cried Mr. Mott, hilariously. "Say, let 's motor up the road somewhere; want to? Let's have dinner out! Here, I know! We'll run up to Tumble Inn. Get the Smithsons, and we 'll have a party."

"I thought you could n't go out tonight!"

"Rot! Call the Smithsons, will you?' "It must have been worth while, your staying," said Mrs. Mott, brightening.

"Well, it was," said Mr. Mott. "And I got the last four holes in par! Hurry up and telephone!"

And as he waited for her report, the man who had played 119 stood before the long mirror in the hallway, and gripped an imaginary club, and swung it, and finished gloriously, with the body well twisted and the hands close to the neck, and grinned happily at the reflection of another Vardon in the making. For this is at once the faith and the hope, the Credo and the Te Deum of the golfer of all time and of whatever ability, Thank God for to-morrow!

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 drive 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

"Not at all. I'm out there about where you are.

"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 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 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 try ing 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.