"You're on !" said Harry Bartlett shortly.

There was a throb from each machine as the electric motors started the
engines, and then they shot down the wide road in clouds of dust - the
sinister gray car and the more showy yellow - while above them, driving
its talons deeper into the sides of the fish it had caught, the osprey
circled off toward its nest of rough sticks in a dead pine tree on the
edge of the forest.

And on the white of the flounder appeared bright red spots of blood,
some of which dripped to the ground as the cruel talons closed until
they met inside.

It was only a little tragedy, such as went on every day in the inlet
and adjacent ocean, and yet, somehow, Harry Bartlett, as he drove on
with ever-increasing speed in an endeavor to gain a length on his
opponent, could not help thinking of it in contrast to the perfect blue
of the sky, in which there was not a cloud. Was it prophetic?

Ruddy-faced men, bronze-faced men, pale-faced men; young women, girls,
matrons and "flappers"; caddies burdened with bags of golf clubs and
pockets bulging with cunningly found balls; skillful waiters hurrying
here and there with trays on which glasses of various shapes, sizes,
and of diversified contents tinkled musically-such was the scene at
the Maraposa Club on this June morning when Captain Gerry Poland and
Harry Bartlett were racing their cars toward it.

It was the chief day of the year for the Maraposa Golf Club, for on it
were to be played several matches, not the least in importance being
that of the cup-winners, open only to such members as had won prizes