Meanwhile, however, dark clouds were gathering. Sullen mutterings were to be heard in corners of the hotel lounge, and the spirit of revolt was abroad. For Ferdinand’s chestiness had not escaped the notice of his defeated rivals. There is nobody so chesty as a normally unchesty man who suddenly becomes chesty, and I am sorry to say that the chestiness which had come to Ferdinand was the aggressive type of chestiness which breeds enemies. He had developed a habit of holding the game up in order to give his opponent advice. The Whip-Cracker had not forgiven, and never would forgive, his well-meant but galling criticism of his back-swing. The Scooper, who had always scooped since the day when, at the age of sixty-four, he subscribed to the Correspondence Course which was to teach him golf in twelve lessons by mail, resented being told by a snip of a boy that the mashie-stroke should be a smooth, unhurried swing. The Snake-Killer--But I need not weary you with a detailed recital of these men’s grievances; it is enough to say that they all had it in for Ferdinand, and one night, after dinner, they met in the lounge to decide what was to be done about it. A nasty spirit was displayed by all. “A mere lad telling me how to use my mashie!” growled the Scooper. “Smooth and unhurried my left eyeball! I get it up, don’t I? Well, what more do you want?” “I keep telling him that mine is the old, full St. Andrew swing,” muttered the Whip-Cracker, between set teeth, “but he won’t listen to me.” “He ought to be taken down a peg or two,” hissed the Snake-Killer. It is not easy to hiss a sentence without a single “s” in it, and the fact that he succeeded in doing so shows to what a pitch of emotion the man had been goaded by Ferdinand’s maddening air of superiority. “Yes, but what can we do?” queried an octogenarian, when this last remark had been passed on to him down his ear-trumpet. “That’s the trouble,” sighed the Scooper. “What can we do?” And there was a sorrowful shaking of heads. “I know!” exclaimed the Cat-Stroker, who had not hitherto spoken. He was a lawyer, and a man of subtle and sinister mind. “I have it! There’s a boy in my office--young Parsloe--who could beat this man Dibble hollow. I’ll wire him to come down here and we’ll spring him on this fellow and knock some of the conceit out of him.” There was a chorus of approval. “But are you sure he can beat him?” asked the Snake-Killer, anxiously. “It would never do to make a mistake.” “Of course I’m sure,” said the Cat-Stroker. “George Parsloe once went round in ninety-four.” “Many changes there have been since ninety-four,” said the octogenarian, nodding sagely. “Ah, many, many changes. None of these motor-cars then, tearing about and killing--” Kindly hands led him off to have an egg-and-milk, and the remaining conspirators returned to the point at issue with bent brows. “Ninety-four?” said the Scooper, incredulously. “Do you mean counting every stroke?” “Counting every stroke.”