"Just the same," persisted Jay, "I'll take the Major's end if you'll promise to keep your mouth shut." "I'll accept no bets on that basis," Waddles announced. "I like a friendly, chatty game." "I've got you for fifty, then, and talk your head off!" And Jay laughed until I thought he would choke. As a matter of fact, he laughed all the rest of the afternoon. IV Quite a gallery turned out for the finals, and this time there was no delay. Waddles was on hand early, and so was the Major. There was considerable betting, for Jay Gilman insisted on backing the Major to the limit. "You're only doing that because he beat you," said Waddles in an injured tone of voice. "Make it a hundred if you want to," was Jay's come-back. "Fifty is plenty, thanks." "What? Not weakening already?" asked Jay. "A hundred, and no limit on the conversation!" "Got you!" snapped Waddles. He would have taken the honour, too, if the Major had not beaten him to it. The old fellow ambled out on the tee, helped himself to a pinch of sand, patted it down carefully, adjusted his ball, and hit a screamer dead on the pin, with just enough hook to make it run well. Then he stepped back, clapped his hands to his waist and cackled--actually cackled like a hen. "Do you know," said he, addressing Waddles--"I believe I've burst my belt! Yes, I'm quite certain I have; but don't fear, old chap. I sha'n't be indecent. I have braces on. Ho, ho, ho!" Waddles paused with his mouth open. At first I thought he was going to say something, but evidently nothing occurred to him, so he teed his ball and took his stance. "It was an old one," said the Major. "I've worn it for ages. Given me by Freddy Fitzpatrick. Queer chap, Fitz.... You don't mind my babbling a little, do you? Dare say I'm a bit nervous." "Oh, not in the least," grunted Waddles, addressing his ball. He hit his usual drive, with the usual result, but his ball was at least forty yards short of the Major's. "Very fortunate, sir!" bleated the Major, following Waddles from the tee. "Blest if I see how you do it! Your form--you don't mind criticism, old chap?--your form is wretchedly bad. Atrocious! Your swing is cramped, your stance is awkward, yet somehow you manage to get over the bunkers. Extraordinary, I call it. Some day you shall teach me the stroke if you will, eh?" Waddles didn't say a word. He tucked his chin down into his collar and made tracks for his ball, but there was a puzzled look in his eyes. He didn't seem to know what to make of this sudden flood of conversation. The Major was with him every step of the way, blatting about his friend Fitzpatrick.