Waddles, executing his second with mechanical precision, carried the deep ravine with his mashie and put the ball on the green for a sure four. Off to the right Cyril prepared to do likewise, but the tree loomed ahead of him, his nerves were unstrung, his temper was ruffled, and instead of going cleanly under the ball he caught the turf four inches behind it and pitched into the ravine, where he found a lie that was all but unplayable. "Tough luck!" said Waddles. Cyril turned and looked at him. I expected an outburst of some sort, but the boy was evidently trying to keep his hair on. "I didn't hit it," said he at length, swallowing hard. I heard an odd choking noise behind me. It was the Major, attempting to remain calm. "Of course you didn't hit it!" agreed Waddles. "You took a hatful of turf; and you know why, don't you?" Cyril groaned and plunged into the ravine. Why follow the harrying details too closely? With the Major as chief mourner, and Waddles holding sympathetic postmortems on all his bad shots, Cyril suffered a complete collapse. I could have beaten him--any one could have beaten him--and as a matter of fact he beat himself. Having found his weak spot, Waddles never let up for an instant. Talk, talk, talk; his flow of conversation was as irritating as a neighbour's phonograph, and as incessant. I wondered that Cyril contained himself as well as he did, until I remembered that it is tradition with the English to lose as silently as they win. The Major, who saw it all, addressed but one remark to me. It was on the tenth hole, and Waddles was showing Cyril why he had topped an iron shot. "Look here," said the Major, jerking his thumb at Waddles, "does he always do this sort of thing? Talk so much, I mean?" I replied, and quite truthfully, that it depended on the way he felt. The Major grunted, and that ended the conversation. The match was wound up on the thirteenth; Cyril shook hands, complimented Waddles on his game, and made a bee line for the clubhouse. Nobody could blame him for not wanting to finish the round. Waddles tagged along at his elbow, gesticulating, explaining the theory of golf, even offering to illustrate certain shots with which Cyril had had trouble. The Major spent the rest of the afternoon on the porch, nursing a tall glass and looking at the hills. After a shower Cyril joined him. "The blooming Britons are holding a lodge of sorrow," said Waddles, who was in high spirits. "What's the betting on the finals to-morrow?" "I'll back the Major," spoke up Jay Gilman, "if you'll promise not to talk the shirt off his back." "Another dumb player, eh?" asked Waddles, grinning. "Never opened his mouth to me but once the entire way round," answered Jay. "And what did he say then?" "As near as I recall," replied Jay, "he said 'Dormie!'" "I hate a man who can't talk!" exclaimed Waddles. "How you must hate yourself," I suggested, and was forced to dodge a match safe.