"Well, that'll be about all for you, Mister Good Player!" announced Parkes with rather more gusto than is considered tactful at such a time. "Yes; that cooks your goose, I guess! Three down and two to go, and I licked you"--here his voice broke and became shrill with triumph. "I licked you on an even game! An even game--d'you get that, Bob? Didn't have to use my handicap at all! Ho, ho! Licked a six-handicap man on an even game! That's pretty good shooting, I guess! You didn't think I had it in me, did you?" The other man did not reply, but continued to stare moodily at Mr. Parkes. He did not even seem to be listening. After a time the victor became aware of a certain tenseness in the situation. His stream of self-congratulation checked to a thin trickle and at last ran dry. There was a short, painful silence. "I don't want to rub it in, or anything," said Parkes apologetically; "but I've got a right to swell up a little. You'll admit that. I didn't think I had a chance when we started, and I never trimmed a six-handicap man before----" "Oh, that's all right!" said the other with the nervous gesture of one who brushes away an unpleasant subject. "Holler your fat head off--I don't care. Give yourself a _loud_ cheer while you're at it. I'm not paying any attention to you." Mr. Parkes was not exactly pleased with the permission thus handsomely granted. "No need for you to get sore about it," was the sulky comment. The vanquished golfer cackled long and loud, but there was a bitter undertone in his mirth. "Sore? Who, me? Just because a lopsided, left-handed freak like you handed me a licking? Where do you get that stuff?" "Well," said Mr. Parkes, still aggrieved, "if you're not sore you'd better haul in the signs. Your lower lip is sticking out a foot and you look as if you'd lost your last friend." "I've lost every shot in my bag," was the solemn reply. "I've lost my game. You don't know what that means, because you've never had any game to lose. It's awful--awful!" "Forget it!" advised Parkes. "Everybody has a bad day once in a while." "You don't understand," persisted the other earnestly. "A month ago I was breaking eighties as regular as clockwork, and every club I had was working fine. Then, all at once, something went wrong--my shots left me. I couldn't drive any more; couldn't keep my irons on the course--couldn't do anything. I kept plugging away, thinking my game would come back to me, hoping every shot I made that there would be some improvement; but I'm getting worse instead of better! Nobody knows any more about the theory of golf than I do, but I can't seem to make myself do the right thing at the right time. I've changed my stance; I've changed my grip; I've changed my swing; I've never tried harder in my life--and look at me! I can't even give an eighteen-handicap man a battle!"