“You shall have him shortly.” “What do you feed him on?” asked Gladstone Bott. “Oh, anything you have yourselves. Put sulphur in his port in the hot weather. Tell me, how did your match go?” “He beat me. I had rotten luck.” Bradbury Fisher’s eyes gleamed. His moment had come. “Luck?” he said. “What do you mean, luck? Luck has nothing to do with it. You’re always beefing about your luck. The trouble with you is that you play rottenly.” “What!” “It is no use trying to play golf unless you learn the first principles and do it properly. Look at the way you drive.” “What’s wrong with my driving?” “Nothing, except that you don’t do anything right. In driving, as the club comes back in the swing, the weight should be shifted by degrees, quietly and gradually, until, when the club has reached its top-most point, the whole weight of the body is supported by the right leg, the left foot being turned at the time and the left knee bent in toward the right leg. But, regardless of how much you perfect your style, you cannot develop any method which will not require you to keep your head still so that you can see your ball clearly.” “Hey!” “It is obvious that it is impossible to introduce a jerk or a sudden violent effort into any part of the swing without disturbing the balance or moving the head. I want to drive home the fact that it is absolutely essential to--” “Hey!” cried Gladstone Bott. The man was shaken to the core. From the local pro, and from scratch men of his acquaintance, he would gladly have listened to this sort of thing by the hour, but to hear these words from Bradbury Fisher, whose handicap was the same as his own, and out of whom it was his unperishable conviction that he could hammer the tar any time he got him out on the links, was too much. “Where do you get off,” he demanded, heatedly, “trying to teach me golf?” Bradbury Fisher chuckled to himself. Everything was working out as his subtle mind had foreseen. “My dear fellow,” he said, “I was only speaking for your good.” “I like your nerve! I can lick you any time we start.” “It’s easy enough to talk.” “I trimmed you twice the week before you sailed to England.” “Naturally,” said Bradbury Fisher, “in a friendly round, with only a few thousand dollars on the match, a man does not extend himself. You wouldn’t dare to play me for anything that really mattered.” “I’ll play you when you like for anything you like.” “Very well. I’ll play you for Blizzard.” “Against what?” “Oh, anything you please. How about a couple of railroads?” “Make it three.” “Very well.” “Next Friday suit you?” “Sure,” said Bradbury Fisher. It seemed to him that his troubles were over. Like all twenty-four handicap men, he had the most perfect confidence in his ability to beat all other twenty-four handicap men. As for Gladstone Bott, he knew that he could disembowel him any time he was able to lure him out of the club-house. * * * * *