Or else, perhaps, I get the ball,
Upon the thumb, or not at all,
Or right into the hands, and then, lorblessme, let it fall.

But what care I? It's the game that calls me--
Simply to be on the field of play;
How can it matter what fate befalls me,
With ten good fellows and one good day?
... But still,
I rather hope spectators will,
Observing any lack or skill,
Remark, "This is his first appearance." Yes, I _hope_ they will.



THE COMPETITION SPIRIT


About six weeks ago a Canadian gentleman named Smith arrived in the Old
Country (England). He knew a man who knew a man who knew a man ... and so
on for a bit ... who knew a man who knew a man who knew me. Letters
passed; negotiations ensued; and about a week after he had first set foot
in the Mother City (London) Smith and I met at my Club for lunch.

I may confess now that I was nervous. I think I expected a man in a brown
shirt and leggings, who would ask me to put it "right there," and tell me
I was "some Englishman." However, he turned out to be exactly like
anybody else in London. Whether he found me exactly like anybody else in
Canada I don't know. Anyway, we had a very pleasant lunch, and arranged
to play golf together on the next day.