in seventeen, but Haynes took the fourth in nineteen to my twenty-two.

At the fifth I noticed a pond guarding the green. I carefully
circumvented this with my faithful putter and holed out in my smallest
score of the round so far.

"Hi!" shouted Haynes. "How many?" He had been having a little hockey
practice by himself in the rough, and was now preparing to play an
approach shot across the pond.

"Twelve!"

"Then I've this for the hole," he yelled, and topped his ball gently
into the water ...

So it went on--what the papers call a ding-dong struggle. Suffice it
to say that at the twelfth I was dormy one and in a state of partial
collapse.

The thirteenth is a short hole. You drive from a kind of pulpit, and
the green is below you, protected by large stiff-backed bunkers like
pews.

"Last hole, thank Heaven," panted Haynes. "I couldn't bear much more.
I'm all of a dither as it is."

Mabel, twittering with excitement, teed up. I looked at the green
lying invitingly below and took that gigantic putter. The ball, struck
with all my little remaining strength, flew straight towards the
biggest bunker, scored a direct hit on the top of it, bounced high in