As a natural result of this sort of thing the Big Four never left the saddle for an instant. Talk about perpetuation in office--they had it down to a fine point. They were always on the Board of Directors; they saw to it that control of the Greens Committee never slipped out of their hands; they had two of the three votes on the House Committee, and no outsider was even considered for treasurer. They were dictators with a large D, and nobody could do a thing about it. If a mild kick was ever made or new blood suggested, the kicker was made to feel like an ingrate. Who started the club anyway? Who dug up the money? Who swung the deal that put the property in our hands? Why, Watlington, Peck, Peebles and Hamilton, to be sure! Could any one blame them for wanting to keep an eye on the organisation? Cer-tain-ly not. The Big Four had us bluffed, bulldozed, buffaloed, licked to a whisper. Peck, Peebles and Hamilton were the active heads of the Midland Manufacturing Company, and it was pretty well known that the bulk of Watlington's fortune was invested in the same enterprise. Those who knew said they were just as ruthless in business as they were in golf--quite a strong statement. They seemed to regard the Sundown Golf and Country Club as their private property, and we were welcome to pay dues and amuse ourselves five days a week, but on Wednesdays and Saturdays we were not to infringe on the sovereign rights of the Big Four. They never entered any of the club tournaments, for that would have necessitated breaking up their foursome. They always turned up in a body, on the tick of noon, and there was an immediate scramble to beat them to Number One tee. Those who lost out stampeded over to Number Ten and played the second nine first. Nobody wanted to follow them; but a blind man, playing without a caddie, couldn't have helped but catch up with them somewhere on the course. If you wonder why the club held together, you have only to recall the story of the cow-puncher whose friend beckoned him away from the faro layout to inform him that the game was crooked. "Hell!" said the cow-puncher. "I know that; but--it's the only game in town, ain't it?" The S.G. & C.C. was the only golf club within fifty miles. III When Wally Wallace came home from college he blossomed out as a regular member of the club. He had been a junior member before, one of the tennis squad. Wally is the son of old Hardpan Wallace, of the Trans-Pacific outfit--you may have heard of him--and the sole heir to more millions than he will ever be able to spend; but we didn't hold this against the boy. He isn't the sort that money can spoil, with nothing about him to remind you of old Hardpan, unless it might be a little more chin than he really needs. Wally's first act as a full-fledged member of the club was to qualify for the James Peck Annual Trophy--a pretty fair sort of cup, considering the donor.