"What are you going to do with such a besotted old fool as that?" asked Henry Bauer. "Here I've invited him into three foursomes this week--all white men, too--and he's turned me down cold. It's not that we want to play with him, for as a golfer he's a terrible thing. It's not that we're crazy about him personally, for socially he's my notion of zero minus; but he took his stinging like a dead-game sport and he's entitled to better treatment than he's getting. But if he hasn't any better sense than to pass his plate for more, what are you going to do about it?" "'Ephraim is joined to idols,'" quoted Little Doc Ellis. "'Let him alone.'" "No, it's the other way round," argued Bauer. "His idols are joined to him--fastened on like leeches. The question naturally arises, how did such a man ever accumulate a fortune? Who forced it on him, and when, and where, and why?" That very afternoon the Ooley-cow turned up with his guest, a large, loud person, also from the Heidelberg of America, who addressed Perkins as "Wesley," and lost no time in informing us that Southern California would have starved to death but for Iowa capital. His name was Cottle--Calvin D. Cottle--and he gave each one of us his card as he was introduced. There was no need. Nobody could have forgotten him. Some people make an impression at first sight--Calvin D. Cottle made a deep dent. His age was perhaps forty-five, but he spoke as one crowned with Methuselah's years and Solomon's wisdom, and after each windy statement he turned to the Ooley-cow for confirmation. "Ain't that so, Wesley? Old Wes knows, you bet your life! He's from my home town!" It was as good as a circus to watch Uncle Billy and Old Man Sprott sizing up this fresh victim. It reminded me of two wary old dogs circling for position, manoeuvring for a safe hold. They wanted to know something about his golf game--what was his handicap, for instance? "Handicap?" repeated Cottle. "Is that a California idea? Something new, ain't it?" Uncle Billy explained the handicapping theory. "Oh!" said Cottle. "You mean what do I go round in--how many strokes. Well, sometimes I cut under a hundred; sometimes I don't. It just depends. Some days I can hit 'em, some days I can't. That's all there is to it." "My case exactly," purred Old Man Sprott. "Suppose we dispense with the handicap?" "That's the stuff!" agreed Cottle heartily. "I don't want to have to give anybody anything; I don't want anybody to give me anything. I like an even fight, and what I say is, may the best man win! Am I right, gentlemen?" "Absolutely!" chirped Uncle Billy. "May the best man win!"