Say, it makes a hit with the directors, all right. First off they
didn't seem to know whether they'd strayed into a bughouse, or were
just bein' cheered; but when they sees Old Hickory's mouth corners they
concludes to take it as a josh. It turns out that both of 'em are golf
cranks too, and inside of three minutes they've forgot whatever it was
they'd come for, they've shed their coats, and have been rung into a
foursome.

Honest, of all the nutty performances! For there was no tellin' where
them balls would roll to, and wherever they went the giddy old boys had
to follow. I remember one of 'em was stretched out full length on his
tummy in the front hall, tryin' to make a billiard shot from under a
low hall seat, when there's another ring at the bell, and Marston, with
a golf bag still slung over his shoulder, lets in a square-jawed,
heavy-set old gent who glares around like he was lookin' for trouble
and would be disappointed if he didn't find it.

"Mr. Peter K. Groff," announces Marston.

"Good night!" says I to myself. "The enemy is in our midst."

But Old Hickory never turns a hair. He stands there in his shirt
sleeves gazin' calm at this grizzly old minin' plute, and then I sees a
kind of cut-up twinkle flash in them deep-set eyes of his as he summons
his foursome to gather around. I didn't know what was coming either,
until they cuts loose with it. And for havin' had no practice they
rips it out strong.

"S-s-s-st! Boom-boom! Outside!" comes the chorus.