"Gimme the one that's left over?" "Quitcha shovin', there! That's a mighty fine cleek. Wisht I had it!" In less time than it takes to tell it the bag was empty. The entire collection of golfing instruments, representing the careful and discriminating accumulation of years, passed into new hands. Everybody knows that no two golf clubs are exactly alike, and that a favourite, once lost or broken, can never be replaced. A perfect club possesses something more than proper weight and balance; it has personality and is, therefore, not to be picked up every day in the week. The driver, the spoon, the cleek, the heavy mid-iron, the jigger, the mashie, the scarred old niblick, the two putters--everything was swept away in one wild spasm of renunciation; and if it hurt Coyne to part with these old friends he bore the pain like a Spartan. "Well, I guess that'll be all," said he at length. "Mr. Coyne," said Butch, who had been practising imaginary approach shots with the light mid-iron, "you wouldn't care if I had about an inch taken off this shaft, would you? It's a little too long for me." "Cut a foot off it if you like." "I just wanted to know," said Butch apologetically. "Lots of people say they're going to quit; but----" "It isn't a case of going to quit with me," said Coyne. "I _have_ quit! You can make kindling wood out of that shaft if you like." Then, with the empty bag under his arm, and his bridges aflame behind him, he marched back to the clubhouse, his chin a bit higher in the air than was absolutely necessary. Later his voice was heard in the shower room, loud and clear above the sound of running water. It suited him to sing and the ditty of his choice was a cheerful one; but the rollicking words failed to carry conviction. An expert listener might have detected a tone smacking strongly of defiance and suspected that Mr. Coyne was singing to keep up his courage. When next seen he was clothed, presumably in his right mind, and rummaging deep in his locker. On the floor was a pile of miscellaneous garments--underwear, sweaters, shirts, jackets, knickerbockers and stockings. To his assistance came Jasper, for twenty years a fixture in the locker room and as much a part of the club as the sun porch or the front door. "Gettin' yo' laundry out, suh? Lemme give you a hand." Now Jasper was what is known as a character; and, moreover, he was a privileged one. He was on intimate terms with every member of the Country Club and entitled to speak his mind at all times. He had made a close study of the male golfing animal in all his varying moods; he knew when to sympathise with a loser, when to congratulate a winner, and when to remain silent. Jasper was that rare thing known as the perfect locker room servant. "This isn't laundry," explained Coyne. "I'm just cleaning house--that's all.... Think you can use these rubber-soled golf shoes?" "Misteh Coyne, suh," said Jasper, "them shoes is as good as new. Whut you want to give 'em away faw?"