"Eh?" said the Major, staring at Waddles intently. "Oh, yes! I'm feeling quite well at present, thanks." "And you'll feel better for taking exercise," continued Waddles. "We are hoping that you will enter our Invitation Tournament next week. You'll get a number of good matches, meet some charming people and make some friends. Play begins on Wednesday." "Ah!" said the Major. "You can pick your own partner in the qualifying round." And here Waddles brought out the envelope containing the invitation. "I thought likely you might want to play with your nephew." The Major took the envelope and opened it. After he had read the inclosure he looked up at Waddles and smiled. "Very kind of you, I'm sure," said he. "Most kind. Cyril will appreciate this.... Shan't we have a drink?" "Can you beat him?" said Waddles to me when we were back in the lounging room. "Just about as chummy as an oyster!" "Either that or very inattentive," said I; "but just the same I think he'll play. Cyril will persuade him." "I don't care a whoop whether he plays or not," growled Waddles. "I hate a man who can't loosen up and _talk_!" "There is only one thing worse," said I, "and that is a man who talks too much." Waddles took my remark as personal and wolfed at me for half an hour. Why is it that the man who has no consideration for your feelings is always so confoundedly sensitive about his own? III Flashing now to a close-up of the scores for the qualifying round, there were two strange faces in the first sixteen--Cyril's and the Major's--and Cyril walked off with the cup offered for low man. His seventy-three created quite a commotion among the Class A men, but the Major's eighty-one was what knocked them all a twister. Even Waddles was amazed. Waddles had turned in an eighty-five, which barely got him into the championship flight, but medal scores are nothing in Waddles' life. Match play is where he shines--match play against a nervous opponent. "The old rum-hound must have been shooting over his head," said Waddles. "I'll bet he holed a lot of niblick shots." I might have been in the fourth flight if I had not picked up my ball after playing eleven in the ditch at the fifth hole, and by that act eliminated myself from the tournament. I finished the round, of course, and signed my partner's card, becoming thereafter a mere spectator and a bit of the gallery. Sam was disgusted with me--so much so that he refused me advice or sympathy. As a usual thing Sam walks up on a drive and selects the club which he thinks I should use. I may disagree with him, but I notice that in the end I always make the shot with the club of his selection. If I am short he tells me that I spared the shot; if I am over he says I hit it too hard.