"Say, these clubs are the real stuff, all right, all right. They're
as brittle as glass. See what I did to 'em. We can hae 'em spliced and
rewound and I'll hang 'em on my wall. All I want is the heads anyhow."

He held up to view a headless mid-iron and brassie, and triumphantly
waved a splendid cleek. My favourite clubs! I could play better from
a hanging lie with that beautiful brassie than with any club I ever
owned and as for the iron, I was deadly with it.

He lit a cigarette and threw the match into a pile of shavings. Old
Conrad returned to life at that instant and stamped out the incipient
blaze.

"I shouldn't consider them very good clubs, Harold, if they break off
like that," said his mother.

"What do you know about clubs?" he snapped, and I at once knew what
class he was in at the preparatory school.

If I was ever like one of these, said I to myself, God rest the sage
soul of my Uncle Rilas!

The situation was no longer humorous. I could put up with anything but
the mishandling of my devoted golf clubs.

Striding up to him, I snatched the remnants from his hands.

"You infernal cub!" I roared. "Haven't you any more sense than to smash
a golf club like that? For two cents I'd break this putter over your