Ambrose made the entire circuit of the room. We could not hear what he said, but we felt the chill he left in his wake. Men glanced up when he addressed them, stared for an instant, and went back to their dice. Some of them were polite in their refusals, some were curt, some were merely disgusted. When he reached the table where Bishop, Gilmore, Moreman and Elder were sitting, they laughed at him. They are our star golfers and members of the team. The Dingbats were too much astonished to show resentment; but when Ambrose left them he patted Doc Pinkinson on the head, and the old gentleman sputtered for the best part of an hour. It was a discouraging tour, and any one else would have hunted a quiet corner and crawled into it; but not Ambrose. He returned to our end of the room, and the pleased and expectant light in his eyes had given way to a steely glare. He beckoned to one of the servants. "Hey, George! Who's the boss here? Who's the Big Finger?" "Misteh Harson, he's one of 'em, suh. He's a membeh of the Greens Committee." "Show him to me!" "Right there, suh, settin' by the window." Ambrose strode across to us and addressed himself to Harson. "My name is Phipps," said he. "I'm a junior member here, registered and all that, and I want to get a game this afternoon. So far, I haven't had any luck." Harson is really a mild and kindly soul. He hates to hurt any one's feelings. "Perhaps all the games are made up," he suggested. "Saturday is a bad day, unless your match is arranged beforehand." "Zat so? Humph! Nice clubby spirit you have here. You make a fellow feel so much at home!" "So we notice," grunted Billford. Ambrose looked at him and smiled. It wasn't exactly a pleasant smile. Then he turned back to Harson. "How about that fourth man of yours?" he demanded. "Has he shown up yet?" Billford caught my eye. "Some one must have left the outside door open," said he. "Seems to me I feel a strong draught." "Put on another shirt!" Ambrose shot the retort without an instant's hesitation. "Now say, if your fourth man isn't here, what's the matter with me?" "Possibly there is nothing the matter with you," said Harson pleasantly; "but if you are a beginner----" "Aw, you don't need to be afraid of my game!" grinned Ambrose. "I'll be easy picking." "That isn't the point," explained Harson. "Our game would be too fast for you." "Well, what of it? How am I ever going to learn if I never play with anybody better than I am? Don't you take any interest in young blood, or is this a close corporation, run for the benefit of a lot of old fossils, playing hooky from the boneyard?" "Oh, run away, little boy, and sell your papers!" Billford couldn't stand it any longer.