mashie wants fixing up. I sha'n't be long."     

       "I'll come with you," said Peter.     

       "Don't bother," said James. "You go on and hold our place at the tee."     

       I regret to say that James was lying. His mashie was in excellent repair, and he still had a dozen balls in his bag, it being his prudent practice always to start out with eighteen. No! What he had said was mere subterfuge. He wanted to go to his locker and snatch a few minutes with Sandy MacBean's "How to Become a Scratch Man". He felt sure that one more glance at the photograph of Mr. MacBean driving would give him the mastery of the stroke and so enable him to win the match. In this I think he was a little sanguine. The difficulty about Sandy MacBean's method of tuition was that he laid great stress on the fact that the ball should be directly in a line with a point exactly in the centre of the back of the player's neck; and so far James's efforts to keep his eye on the ball and on the back of his neck simultaneously had produced no satisfactory results.     

       It seemed to James, when he joined Peter on the tenth tee, that the       latter's manner was strange. He was pale. There was a curious look in his eye.     

       "James, old man," he said.     

       "Yes?" said James.     

       "While you were away I have been thinking. James, old man, do you really love this girl?"     

       James stared. A spasm of pain twisted Peter's face.     

       "Suppose," he said in a low voice, "she were not all you—we—think she is!"     

       "What do you mean?"     

       "Nothing, nothing."     

       "Miss Forrester is an angel."     

       "Yes, yes. Quite so."     

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