Whatever else is true of Canada there can be no doubt that it turns out
delightful golfers. Smith proved to be just the best golfer I had ever
met, being, when at the top of his form, almost exactly as good as I was.
Hole after hole we halved in a mechanical eight. If by means of a raking
drive and four perfect brassies at the sixth he managed to get one up for
a moment, then at the short seventh a screaming iron and three consummate
approaches would make me square again. Occasionally he would, by
superhuman play, do a hole in bogey; but only to crack at the next, and
leave me, at the edge of the green, to play "one off eleven." It was, in
fact, a ding-dong struggle all the way; and for his one-hole victory in
the morning I had my revenge with a one-hole victory in the afternoon.

By the end of a month we must have played a dozen rounds of this nature.
I always had a feeling that I was really a better golfer than he, and
this made me friendly towards his game. I would concede him short putts
which I should have had no difficulty in missing myself; if he lost his
ball I would beg him to drop another and go on with the hole; if he got
into a bad place in a bunker I would assure him it was ground under
repair. He was just as friendly in refusing to take these advantages,
just as pleasant in offering similar indulgences to me. I thought at
first it was part of his sporting way, but it turned out that (absurdly
enough) he also was convinced that he was really the better golfer of the
two, and could afford these amenities.

One day he announced that he was going back to Canada.

"We must have a last game," he said, "and this one must be decisive."

"For the championship of the Empire," I agreed. "Let's buy a little cup