Yesterday it was Doc Pinkinson who brought in the ninety-eight--and signed all the tags; and between libations they talked about Ambrose Phipps, who was practising brassy shots off the grass beside the eighteenth green. Little Poison Ivy was unusually cocky, even for him, and every move was a picture. At the end of his follow-through he would freeze, nicely balanced on the tip of his right toe, elbows artistically elevated, clubhead up round his neck; and not a muscle would he move until the ball stopped rolling. He might have been posing for a statue of the Perfect Golfer. When he walked it was with a conscious little swagger and a flirting of the short tails of his belted sport coat. He was hitting them clean, he was hitting them far, he had an audience--and well he knew it. Ambrose was in his glory yesterday afternoon! "By golly!" exclaimed Doc Pinkinson. "Ain't that a pretty sight? Ain't it a treat to see that kid lambaste the ball?" "Certainly is," agreed Old Treanor with a sigh. "Perfect form--that's what he's got." "And confidence in himself," put in Old Myles. "That's the big secret. You can see it in every move he makes. Confidence is a wonderful thing!" "And youth," said Daddy Bradshaw. "That's the most wonderful thing of all. It's his youth that makes him so--so flip. Got a lot to say, for a kid; but--somehow I always liked him for it." "Me too!" chimed in Doc Pinkinson. "Doggone his skin! He used to make me awful mad, that boy.... Oh, well, I reckon I'm kind of cranky, anyway.... Yes; I always liked Ambrose." Now that was all rot, and I knew it. What's more, the Dingbats knew it too. They hadn't always liked Ambrose. A week ago they would have marked his swaggering gait, the tilt of his chin, the conscious manner in which he posed after every shot; and they would have said Ambrose was showing off for the benefit of the female tea party at the other end of the porch--and they wouldn't have made any mistake, at that. No; they hadn't always liked young Mr. Phipps. Nobody had liked him. To be perfectly frank about it, we had disliked him openly and cordially, and had been at no pains to keep him from finding it out. We had snubbed him, insulted him and ignored him on every possible occasion. Worst of all, we had made a singleton of him. We had forced him to play alone, because there wasn't a man in all the club who wanted him as a partner or as an opponent. There is no meaner treatment than this; nor is there anything more pathetically lonely than a singleton on a crowded golf course. It is nothing more or less than a grown-up trip to Coventry. I thought of all these things as I listened to the prattling of the Dingbats. "Guess he won't have any trouble getting games now, hey?" chuckled Old Treanor. "Huh!" grunted Doc Pinkinson. "He's dated up a week ahead--with Moreman and that bunch! _A week ahead!_" "And he'll make 'em step!" chirped Daddy Bradshaw. "Here's to him, boys--a redhead and a fighter! Drink her down!"