Produced by Al Haines 32 CALIBER by Donald McGibeny _Frontispiece by_ HUGH MACKEY [Transcriber's note: frontispiece missing from book] INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT 1920 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER I BRING JIM HERE II TWO MEN AND A WOMAN III I COULD KILL HIM IV THE WORST HAPPENS V ACCIDENT OR MURDER VI A CLUE AND A VERDICT VII I TURN DETECTIVE VIII IT LOOKS BAD FOR HELEN IX LOOK OUT, JIM X I ACCUSE ZALNITCH XI A DOUBLE INDICTMENT XII WHO AM I XIII WE PLAN THE DEFENSE XIV BULLET PROOF XV THE ANSWER XVI THE MECHANICIAN XVII RED CAPITULATES XVIII I LISTEN TO MY FOREBEARS 32 CALIBER CHAPTER ONE BRING JIM HERE I was in the locker-room of the country-club, getting dressed after the best afternoon of golf I had ever had. I had just beaten Paisley "one-up" in eighteen holes of the hardest kind of sledding. If you knew Paisley you'd understand just why I was so glad to beat him. He is a most insufferably conceited ass about his golf, for a man who plays as badly as he does; in addition to which he usually beats me. It's not that Paisley plays a better game, but he has a way of making me pull my drive or over-approach just by his confounded manner of looking at me when I am getting ready to play. We usually trot along about even until we come to the seventh hole--in fact, I'm usually ahead at the seventh--and then conversation does me in. You see, the seventh hole can be played two ways. There's a small clay bank that abuts the green and you can either play around or over it to the hole, which lies directly behind. The real golfers play over with a good mashie shot that lands them dead on the green, but dubs, like Paisley, play around with two easy mid-iron shots. When we get to the place where the choice must be made, Paisley suggests that I go around, which makes me grip my mashie firmly, recall all the things I have read in the little book about how to play a mashie shot, and let drive with all my force, which usually lands me somewhere near the top of the clay bank, where it would take a mountain goat to play the next shot. After that, Paisley and I exchange a few hectic observations and my temperature and score mount to the highest known altitude. Of course, every now and then, I forget my stance and Paisley long enough to send the ball in a beautiful parabola right on to the green, and when I do--oh, brother!--the things I say to Paisley put him in such a frame of mind that I could play the rest of the course with a paddle and a basket-ball and still beat him. This particular afternoon he had tried to play the seventh hole as it should be played, and though we had both foozled, I had won the hole and romped triumphantly home with the side of pig.