Windy didn't say anything, but he went into his locker and brought out a roll of bills about the size of a young grindstone. He counted fifty dollars off it, and you couldn't have told the difference. It looked just as big as before. He handed the fifty to me. "It would be stealing it," said Cupid, but there was a hungry look in his eye. "If you get away with it," said Windy, "I won't complain to the police. Put up or shut up." Well, it looked like finding the money. We knew that Windy couldn't break a 90 to save his life, and Cupid had done the course in an 84, using nothing but a putting cleek. "How many clubs can I have?" asked Cupid with his usual caution in the matter of bets. "Oh, six or eight," answered Windy. "Makes no difference to me." "I'll take eight," said Cupid briskly. "And if you don't mind, I'll post a check. I'm not in the habit of carrying the entire cash balance in my jeans." "Fair enough!" said Windy. "You boys are all witnesses to the terms of this bet. I'm to pick out eight clubs--eight new ones--and Cutts here is to play with 'em. Is that understood?" "Perfectly!" grinned Cupid. "It'll just cost you fifty fish to find out that a mechanical golfer can lick you with strange weapons." Windy went out and Cupid promised us all a dinner on the proceeds of the match. "I don't want the fellow's money," said he, "but Windy's entirely too fresh for a new member. A beating will do him good and make him humble. Eight clubs. If he brings me only two or three that I can use--a driver, a mid-iron, and a putter--I'll hang his hide on the fence too easy. He's made a bad bet." But it wasn't such a bad bet after all. Windy came back with eight clubs in the crook of his arm, and when Cupid caught a glimpse of the collection he howled himself purple in the face, and no wonder. Eight nice, new, shiny, mashie niblicks! You see, nothing was said about the _sort_ of clubs Windy was to pick out, and he had selected eight of the same pattern, no good on earth except for digging out of bunkers or popping the ball straight up in the air! Harry Vardon himself can't _drive_ with a mashie niblick! "What are you beefin' about?" asked Windy. "Eight clubs, you said, and here they are. Play or pay." "Pay! Why, man alive, it's a catch bet--a cinch bet! It's not being done this year at all! It's like stealing the money!" "And you thought you could steal mine," was the cool reply. "You thought you had a cinch bet, didn't you? Be honest now. Eight clubs, by the terms of the agreement, and you'll play with 'em or forfeit the fifty." Cupid looked at the mashie niblicks and then he looked at Windy. I looked at him too and began to understand how he got his money. His face was as hard as granite. "You'd collect that sort of a bet--from a friend?" It was Cupid's last shot. "Just as quick as you would," said Windy. "I'll write you a check," and Cupid turned on his heel and started for the office.