Ambrose fidgeted as he took his stance, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and his first practise swing was short and jerky. He seemed to realise this, for he tried again before he stepped forward to the ball. It was no use; the result was the same. He had suddenly stiffened in every muscle and joint--gone tense with the nervous strain. He did manage to remember about the back swing--it was slow enough to suit anybody; but at the top of it he faltered, hesitating just long enough to destroy the rhythm that produces a perfect shot. He realised this, too, and tried to make up for it by lunging desperately at the ball; but as the club-face went through he jerked up his head and turned it sharply to the left. The inevitable penalty for this triple error was a wretchedly topped ball, which skipped along the ground until it reached the bunker. "Well, by the sweet and suffering----" This was as far as Ambrose got before he remembered that he had a gallery. He scuttled off the tee, very much abashed; and MacNeath followed, covering the ground with long, even strides. There was just the thin edge of a smile on the veteran's lean, bronzed face. Moved by a common impulse, the spectators turned their backs and began to drift across the lawn to the Number Ten tee. They had seen quite enough. Old Doc Pinkinson voiced the general sentiment: "No use following a bad match when you can see a good one, folks. Gilmore and Jordan are just driving off at Ten. I knew that redhead was a fizzer--a false alarm." "Can't understand why they let him play at all!" scolded Daddy Bradshaw. "Might just as well put _me_ in there against MacNeath! Fools!" MacQuarrie obstinately refused to quit his pupil. "He boggled his swing," growled Dunn'l; "he fair jumped at the ball, an' he looked up before he hit it. He'll do better wi'out a gallery. Come along, sir!" I followed as far as the first bunker. Though his ball was half buried in the sand, Ambrose attempted to skim it over the wall with a mashie, an idiotic thing to do, and an all but impossible shot. He got exactly what his lunacy deserved--a much worse lie than before, close against the bank--and this exhibition of poor judgment cost him half his audience. "What, not going already?" asked Ambrose after he had played four and picked up his ball. "Stick round a while. This is going to be _good_." I said I wanted to see how the other matches were coming on. "Everybody seems to feel the same way," said the redhead, looking at the retreating gallery. "All because I slopped that drive! I'll have that audience back again--see if I don't! And I'll bet you I won't look up on another shot all day!" "If ye do," grumbled MacQuarrie, "I'll never play wi'ye again as long as ye live!" "That's a promise!" cried Ambrose. "One down, eh? Where do we go from here?" IV