"And you oughta seen him at the finish--all he needed was an undertaker! You know how good he used to be. Straight down the middle all the time. The poor sucker has blowed every shot in his bag--darned if it wasn't pitiful to watch him. He ain't even got his chip shot left. And on the last hole----" "S-s-s-t!" whispered a youngster, glancing in the direction of the clubhouse. "Here he comes now!" Because Mr. Coyne's game had been the subject of full and free discussion, and because they did not wish him to know it, every trace of expression vanished instantly from the twelve youthful faces. The first thing a good caddie learns is repression. Twelve wooden countenances turned to greet the visitor. His presence in the caddie shed was unusual, but even this fact failed to kindle the light of interest in the eye of the youngest boy. Coyne gave them small time to wonder what brought him into their midst. "Butch," said he, speaking briskly and with an air of forced cheerfulness, "if you had a chance to pick a club out of this bag, which one would you take?" "If I had a _what_?" asked Butch, pop-eyed with amazement. "Which one of these clubs do you like the best?" "Why, the light mid-iron, sir," answered the boy without an instant's hesitation. "The light mid-iron, sure!" Mr. Coyne drew the club from the bag. "It's yours," said he briefly. "Mine!" ejaculated Butch. "You--you ain't _giving_ it to me, are you?" Coyne nodded. "But--but what's the idea? You can't get along without that iron, sir. You use it more than any other club in your bag!" "Take it if you want it, Butch. I'm going to quit playing golf." "Yes, you are!" exclaimed the caddie, availing himself of one of the privileges of long acquaintance. "Nobody ever quits unless they get so old they can't walk!" "Very well," said Coyne. "If you don't want this club, maybe some of these other boys----" "Not a chance!" cried Butch, seizing the mid-iron. "I didn't think you meant it at first. I----" "Now then, Frenchy," said Coyne, "which club will you have?" "This is on the square, is it?" demanded Frenchy suspiciously. "This ain't Injun givin'? Because--me, I had my eye on that brassy for some time now. Weighted just right. Got a swell shaft in it.... Thank you, mister! Gee! What do think of that--hey? Some club!" At this point the mad philanthropist was mobbed by a group of eager youngsters, each one clamouring to share in his reckless generosity. So far as the boys knew, the situation was without parallel in golfing history; but this was a phase of the matter that could come up later for discussion. The main thing was to get one of those clubs while the getting was good. "Please, can I have that driver?" "Aw, mister, you know me!" "The mashie would be my pick!" "Who ast _you_ to pick anything, Dago? You ain't got an old brass putter there, have you, sir? All my life I been wantin' a brass putter."