"Well, let's move on upstairs," said Rocksworth. Addressing the porters he said: "You fellows get this lot of stuff together and I'll take an option on it. I'll be over to-morrow to close the deal, Mr.--Mr.--Now, where is the old Florentine mirror the Count was telling us about?" "The Count?" said I, frowning. "Yes, the _real_ owner. You can't stuff me with your talk about being the proprietor here, my friend. You see, we happen to _know_ the Count." They all condescended to laugh at me. I don't know what I should have said or done if Britton had not returned with a box of matches at that instant--sulphur matches which added subtly to the growing illusion. Almost simultaneously there appeared in the lower hall a lanky youth of eighteen. He was a loud-voiced, imperious sort of chap with at least three rolls to his trousers and a plum-coloured cap. "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 head." "Father!" he yelled indignantly. "Who is this mucker?" Mr. Rocksworth bounced toward me, his cane raised. I whirled upon him. "How dare you!" he shouted. The ladies squealed. If he expected me to cringe, he was mightily mistaken. My blood was up. I advanced. "Paste him, Dad!" roared Harold. But Mr. Rocksworth suddenly altered his course and put the historic treaty table between him and me. He didn't like the appearance of my rather brawny fist. "You big stiff!" shouted Harold. Afterwards it occurred to me that this inelegant appellation may have been meant for his father, but at the time I took it to be aimed at me.