one of the most admirable young fellows I have ever met. A handsome,
well-set-up man, with no vices except a tendency to use the mashie for
shots which should have been made with the light iron. And as for his
positive virtues, they were too numerous to mention. He never swayed
his body, moved his head, or pressed. He was always ready to utter a
tactful grunt when his opponent foozled. And when he himself achieved a
glaring fluke, his self-reproachful click of the tongue was music to
his adversary's bruised soul. But of all his virtues the one that most
endeared him to me and to all thinking men was the fact that, from the
start of a round to the finish, he never spoke a word except when
absolutely compelled to do so by the exigencies of the game. And it was
this man who subsequently, for a black period which lives in the memory
of all his contemporaries, was known as Gabby George and became a shade
less popular than the germ of Spanish Influenza. Truly, _corruptio
optimi pessima!_

One of the things that sadden a man as he grows older and reviews his
life is the reflection that his most devastating deeds were generally
the ones which he did with the best motives. The thought is
disheartening. I can honestly say that, when George Mackintosh came to
me and told me his troubles, my sole desire was to ameliorate his lot.
That I might be starting on the downward path a man whom I liked and
respected never once occurred to me.

One night after dinner when George Mackintosh came in, I could see at
once that there was something on his mind, but what this could be I was
at a loss to imagine, for I had been playing with him myself all the
afternoon, and he had done an eighty-one and a seventy-nine. And, as I
had not left the links till dusk was beginning to fall, it was
practically impossible that he could have gone out again and done