"Haven't made a decent chip shot in a month.... No use trying now. All confounded foolishness!" So saying, the man who had renounced Colonel Bogey and all his works dropped the ball twenty feet from the edge of the putting green. The lie did not suit him; so he altered it slightly. Then he planted his disreputable Romeos firmly on the turf, waggled the rusty mid-iron a few times, pressed the blade lightly behind the ball, and attempted that most difficult of all performances--the chip shot. The ball hopped across the lawn to the smooth surface of the putting green and rolled straight for the cup, struck the flag and stopped two inches from the hole. "Heavens above!" gasped Mr. Coyne, rubbing his eyes. "Look at that, will you? I hit the pin, by golly--_hit the pin_!" * * * * * At dusk Mrs. Coyne returned. The first thing she noticed was that a large rug was missing from the dining room. Having had experience, she knew exactly where to look for it. On the back porch she paused, her hands on her hips. The missing rug was hanging over the clothesline, and her lord and master, in shirtsleeves and the unspeakable Romeos, was driving a single golf ball against it. Whish-h-h! Click! Thud! "And I guess that's getting my weight into the swing!" babbled Mr. Coyne. "I've found out what I've been doing that was wrong. Watch me hit this one, Mary." Mrs. Coyne was everything that a good wife should be, but she sniffed audibly. "I've told you a dozen times that I didn't want you knocking holes in that rug!" said she. "Why, there isn't a hole in it, my dear." "Well, there will be if you keep on. It seems to me, Bob, that you might get enough golf out at the club. Then you won't scandalise the neighbours by practising in the back yard on Sunday afternoons. What do you suppose they'll think of you?" "They'll think I'm crazy," was the cheerful response; "but, just between you and me, my dear, I'm not near so crazy right now as I have been!" III Jasper was cleaning up the locker room--his regular Monday-morning job. As he worked he crooned the words of an old negro melody: "_Ole bline hawss, come outen the wilderness, Outen the wilderness, outen the wilderness; Ole bline hawss_----" The side door opened and Jasper dropped his mop. "Who's that?" he asked. "This early in the mawnin'?" But when he recognised the caller he did not show the faintest symptoms of surprise. Jasper was more than a perfect servant; he was also a diplomat. "Good mawnin', Misteh Coyne." The caller seemed embarrassed. He attempted to assume a cheerful expression, but succeeded in producing a silly grin. "Jasper," said he, "I was a little bit sore yesterday----" "Yes, suh; an' nobody could blame you," said the negro, coming gallantly to the rescue. "And you know how it is with a man when he's sore."