Again Waddles spatted out a drive that narrowly escaped a cross bunker, but it struck on a hard spot and ran fully one hundred yards before it stopped. Waddles knows every hard spot on the course and governs himself accordingly. Cyril followed through this time--followed through so vigorously that the ball developed a hook. A cross wind helped it along into the rough grass, leaving him a nasty second shot over shrubbery and trees. It hadn't stopped rolling before Waddles was talking again. "You know what you did then? Too much right hand; and your club head----" "Precisely," said Cyril, and left the tee almost on a dog-trot; but Waddles trotted with him, explaining what had happened to the club head. He was so earnest about it, so eager to be of assistance, so persistent, that Cyril did not know how to take him. Then, to add to the boy's discomfiture, Waddles played a perfect spoon shot, taking advantage of the wind, and the ball stopped six feet from the pin. Only a miracle could have saved Cyril after that, and there were no miracles left in his system. His ball carried low from the rough, struck the limb of a tree and glanced out of bounds. He played another, which dropped into thick weeds, and then picked up, conceding the hole. All the way to the third tee Waddles expounded the theory of the niblick shot out of grass, pausing only to spat another perfect ball down the course. It was here that Cyril left the wood in his bag and took out a cleek. He wanted distance and he needed direction, our third hole calling for a well-placed tee shot; but he sliced just enough to put him squarely behind the largest tree on the entire course. "I was sure you'd do that," said Waddles, sympathetically. "It's really a wooden club shot, and when you took your iron I knew you were afraid of it. Changing clubs is always a sign of weakness, don't you think so?" Cyril mumbled something and started down the path, and at this point the old Major, who had been lingering in the background, swung in behind him with his first and last bit of advice. "Keep your hair on, dear boy," he bleated. "Keep your hair on. Whatever happens, don't get waxy." Cyril grunted but didn't say anything, and the Major dropped to the rear again, making queer little noises in his throat. "Now the ideal--shot on this--hole," panted Waddles, overtaking his victim, "is a little bit--farther to the left. A hook--doesn't hurt you--as much--as a slice----" "I'm not hurt yet!" snapped Cyril. "Why, of course not!" cried Waddles with the heartiest good nature. "Of course not--but if your ball--had been farther to the left--you wouldn't have to play--over that tree--and----" There was more, but Cyril did not wait to hear it.