I read the other day an article by my colleague "Arcturus" which I thought
was a little boastful. It referred to a bull-dog. Now I cannot tell what
there is about a bull-dog that makes people haughty, but it is certain that
I have never known a case in which the companionship of that animal has not
had this effect. The man who keeps a bull-dog becomes after a time only fit
for the company of a bull-dog. He catches the august pride of the animal,
seems to think like a bulldog, to talk in the brief, scornful tones of a
bulldog, and even to look fat and formidable like a bull-dog. That,
however, is not an uncommon phenomenon among those who live with animals.
Go to a fat stock show and look at the men around the cattle pens. Or
recall the pork butchers you have known and tell me----. But possibly you,
sir, who read these lines, are a pork butcher and resent the implication.
Sir, your resentment is just. You are the exception, sir--a most notable
exception.

But my object here is not merely to warn "Arcturus" of the perilous company
he is keeping. I refer to his bull-dog panegyric also to justify me in
enlarging on my own private vanity. If he is permitted to write to the
extent of a column on a bull-dog, I can at least claim the same latitude in
regard to a sensible subject like golf. And I have this advantage over him,
that I have a real message. I have a hint to offer that will mean money in
pocket to you.

And first let me say that I have nothing to teach you in the way of play. I
am in that stage of the novitiate that seems sheer imbecility. When I get a
good stroke I stare after it as stout Cortez stared at the Pacific, "with a
wild surmise." But it is because I am a bad player that I feel I can be
useful to you. For most of my time on the links is spent in looking for