It gets Peter K.'s goat too. His jaw comes open and his eyes pop.
Next he swallows bard and flushes red behind the ears. "Ellins," says
he, "I've come fifteen hundred miles to ask what you mean by telling
me----"

"Oh, that you, Groff?" breaks in the boss. "Well, don't interrupt our
game. Fore! You, I mean. Fore, there! Now go ahead, Rawson.
Playing eleven, aren't you?"

And Rawson's just poked his ball out, makin' a neat carom into the
music room, when the hall clock strikes five.

"By Jove, gentlemen!" exclaims Doc Hirshway. "Sorry, but I must quit.
Should have been in my office an hour ago. I really must go."

"Quitter!" says Mr. Ellins. "But all right. Trot along. Here, Groff,
you're a golfer, aren't you?"

"Why--er--yes," says Peter K., actin' sort of dazed; "but I----"

"That's enough," says Old Hickory. "You take Hirshway's place.
Dunham's your partner. We're playing Nassau, ten a corner. But I'll
tell you,--just to make it interesting, I'll play you on the side to
see whether or not we accept that proposition of yours. Is it a go?"

"But see here, Ellins," conies back Peter K. "I want you to understand
that you or any other man can't tell me to sew my head in a bag
without----"