Well, I'm one over four for two holes. Where 's the next one?"

They showed it to him. On the right, parallel with the line, ran a row of trees cunningly planted in echelon; on the left,

"Not having had a club in my hands for nineteen days," said Mr. Cuyler, "I may not make it. I see you 've got to land on the green, and stick. I may not do it; probably I won't." He did n't; but the ball bobbed and bobbed until at last it trickled within a dozen feet of the hole and came to rest. He looked at the divot

he had slashed; he examined critically the head of his driver. "Little muscular strain in my shoulder," he confessed. "Had a touch of neuritis last night. It's a wonder I can get 'em off the ground."

"If there had n't been power behind it," said Bowker, "you would n't have. That's what got you through." He pitched squarely on the flag; the ball bounded into the brook.

"You hesitate at the top of your swing," said Mr. Cuyler. "You'll pardon me for saying so, but it 's very noticeable." He marched dignifiedly down to his ball, and took three skittish putts. "One over four for three holes," he stated, fighting down his pride. "If your course has correct architecture, the next hole ought to be a long one."

"Five hundred and thirty yards," said Corbett. "You want to clear the brook on your drive, that 's all."

"He'd better play safe," objected Bowker.

Mr. Cuyler addressed his ball gingerly. His hands trembled, and his shoulders sagged limply. His mouth was firmly set; his eyes showed indomitable resolution, mixed with unholy fear.

"If you gentlemen will stop talking," he mumbled. "It throws me off; it always throws me off." In his anxiety he touched the ball, so that it toppled from its nest of sand. "There!" he snapped. "That's what I get for it! Took my mind off it! Enough to rattle anybody. It makes you stiffen up-and- Here he drove with admirable precision into the

second brook. There was a silver splash in the sunshine, a dot of white on the fairway ahead.

"Out, by George!" breathed Bowker. "You hit that hard," said Horton. "Right on your drive to-day," said Corbett.

The capitalist faced them frowningly. "I don't know what it is," he admitted; "it's beyond me. No matter how I hit 'em, they go! I must put something on the ball." He clipped the heads from a pair of misplaced daisies. "It was the follow through that saved me," he reported. "The shot was rotten-all but the follow through. That saved it. That always comes when I need it. And it's funny, because I don't feel like playing golf to-day. I don't believe I slept three hours last night." He followed the flight of Horton's ball, a perfectly straight, clean drive which escaped the water hazard by the barest of margins. "How far do you estimate that shot?" he demanded.

"He averaged two hundred and thirty off the tee in the championship," said Corbett.

"My reason for asking," said Mr. Cuyler, smiling a trifle cynically as Bowker pulled into trouble, "is that I wondered how far mine went. I think I could do better if my shoulders were n't so stiff with neuritis." He topped savagely, and analyzed the effort with a wealth of imagery. His third attempt was successful enough to justify a putter on the fourth. "Down in five," he announced, beaming rapturously and breathing hard. "Four," said Horton. "Four," said Corbett. "Six," said Bowker.

"I am almost sorry," proclaimed the capitalist, drying the moisture from his clammy hands, "that I 'm starting so well. Of course it's nothing extraordinary, but I seem to be one over par for four holes. It's too good; it distresses me. Ought not to keep medal scores at all-that's my theory. Now I'll probably press; natural for anybody. I wish I had n't lost a stroke on the second; I'd be even with par."

"Steady as a church," said Corbett. "Only one mistake in four holes," said Bowker.

"I thought I was a long driver," said Horton, aggrievedly, "but you 're right with me every shot."

"Where?" he inquired weakly. They indicated a yellow flag which, to his disordered fancy, marked a hill at least a mile and a half to westward. "My wrists have gone back on me," he muttered. "Broke one of 'em a few years ago.

"There's one thing about it," he proclaimed through chattering teeth. “I— I've got nerve enough, but against this wind, with a heavy ball-well, it's all in the day's work. What difference does it make?"

"Not the least," Bowker assured him heartily. "We all play for the fun of it.”

Here Mr. Cuyler hooked viciously; almost before the club-head had passed the ball he was scrutinizing it with every symptom of apoplexy.

"Oh, the idiots!" he rasped. "The miserable, lying, cheating, swindling idiots! Look! Look at that! Feel of that club! It 's new; just had it made. Took it out of the bag to-day for the first time. Feel where the balance is! There's two

ounces too much lead back there. Feel it turn over of its own weight at the top of the swing! The idea of trying to play golf with a stuffed mallet like that! Now I'm mad! I'll tell you exactly what 'll happen: I 'll dub every shot from here to the finish. Watch me!"

Accordingly, they watched him dub two of them, and run down an approach putt for a par four.

any more. If I try to spare it, I 'll fluff it. Hardest shot for anybody in the world 's a spared shot." The mere weight of the club carried the ball out in soaring flight; Mr. Cuyler sat down on the tee-box and mopped his glistening countenance. His expression, as he looked at Corbett, was the harbinger of speech, but he thought better of it, and kept silence, although the effort must have tortured him.

"Bully!" said Bowker. "You'll be under forty for nine holes!"

"Oh, no I won't. You don't know me. You 're a young man. I can't climb around these hills; all out of breath when I come to my second shot. I'll miss it sure."

He topped it, but it rolled miraculously to the green. He putted, and the ball sank with a gratifying tinkle.

"Three for me," he said, fumbling for the card and dropping his pencil. "Three, and it's a par four! It 's three hundred and sixty yards; it 's uphill-a birdie three. I'm one over four for six holes." He stretched his arms wide, and inhaled deeply. "Gad! what a wonderful course!" he said. "A wonderful course! It's the hardest in the metropolitan district,

"Good recovery, Mr. Cuyler!" said Horton.

"You can't beat him," declared Corbett. But the capitalist was shaking from head to foot. Despite his theory, he had requisitioned a card from his caddy, and recorded his own score; twice, as he was making the entries, the pasteboard fluttered from his palsied fingers.

"Four," he whispered. "One over four, one over four, two over four, two over four. I'm two over four for five holes.'

"Your shot, Mr. Cuyler."

four for six holes! Did n't expect me to be going so strong, did you? Where's the next? Where 's the seventh?"

"Foot of the hill," Bowker told him. "Long, but very easy. All you have to do is swipe it; she 'll roll indefinitely."

Obediently, Mr. Cuyler swiped it. He caught the ball on the toe of the club; it glanced to the right, found the slope, and leaped amazingly downward. Mr. Cuyler, posing rigidly in the attitude in which all experts are photographed, waited until his muscles ached.

"Foundered," he said, "but it rolled. "I don't know what it is, but I put some

"In!" cried Bowker behind him.
"What? Did it go down?"

"It fiddled around and then dropped. Look in the cup!"

"A three for Mr. Cuyler," said Horton, noting it.

"Even fours to here," commented Corbett. "That's remarkable, especially for a man who never saw the place before to-day."

"But I'm so sore at that caddy," growled Mr. Cuyler, "I 'm likely to go all to pieces any minute. Just my luck, anyway. Wish I'd had some gloves. Well, now for a short slice and a merry one! Take me ten strokes now, I suppose; lucky if I get around under fifty."

As a matter of fact, he finished the first nine holes in thirty-seven, and took stimulants more from necessity than from inclination.

It was an hour before they could persuade him back to the course.

"I'm satisfied," he said. "You gentlemen go ahead. I'm tired now; I 'd probably hold you back. I'm tired. Nine holes is plenty for an old man, anyway.”

"Not by the wildest stretch of the imagination," said Horton, gallantly, “can a man be considered old when he can go out in thirty-seven at Warwick!"

Eventually they led him out, and again. he paused to admire the landscape.

"What rent do you pay?" he asked. "Twenty thousand," said Corbett. "I should want thirty; that 's six per cent. on the investment. Where's the next hole?"

Joyously they chorused directions for reaching the tenth, which was guarded by another of the Inness brooks and by a semicircle of trees.

"Almost wish I had n't said I'd play," the man of money told them. "Sat too long in the house; got cold." Thus armed with a reasonable excuse, he drove almost at right angles to the course.

"Too bad!" said Horton, sorrowfully. "You bet it's too bad," murmured Corbett.

"Just cold-nothing but cold," explained Mr. Cuyler. "Serves me right; ought to have had more sense. Now I can't relax in the swing." He took four shots in the rough, gouged four tremendous clots of sod, approached execrably, putted miserably, and was down in nine. His subsequent monologue was illuminating. The three conspirators stole covert glances at one another as they walked to the eleventh tee.

"We think we 're extravagant if we play for a ball a hole," whispered Corbett to Bowker. "It 's possible that we played the tenth for half a million-and lost!"

"Give him a chance!" said Bowker, mirthlessly.

The eleventh was rated on the card as a par five; Mr. Cuyler, assisted by a flat stone at the root of a tree, accomplished it in seven, broke his putter over his knee, and kicked his tweed hat into the brook.

"Now I've strained my thumb!" he said pathetically. "Never mind; come ahead! Everything breaks against me. I don't care; I play for the fun of it. It keeps me out in the open air. If that caddy eats another apple as loudly as he did the last one, I 'll brain him."

The twelfth was a simple iron shot; he played it perfectly, got his three, and smiled wearily.

"Nineteen for three holes," he observed. "Great golf! One over six! And now I've got to putt with a cleik!"

"Lend you my putter," said three voices in unison.

balloon." Nevertheless, he brought off another shot which Horton characterized as perfect. An approach and two putts gave him his five.

The fourteenth tee was on the edge of a sickening swamp, inhabited by bullfrogs that croaked malevolently. Once more a battery of trees was placed to penalize a slice; on the left an artistic rockery glinted in the sun.

"If those darned frogs would keep quiet," said Mr. Cuyler, warmly, "perhaps I could give some attention to this ball. How far is it across the Gulf of Mexico?"

"A good, full shot."

"And a good, full shot is something a man of seventy-I 'm nearly seventy