"He had a stroke like yours, old Fitz. Frightfully crippled up with rheumatism, poor chap! Abominable golfer! No form, no swing, but the devil's own luck.... I say, what club shall you use next? I should take a cleek, but you don't carry one, I've noticed. Too bad. Very useful club, but it calls for a full, clean swing. You'd boggle a cleek horribly.... You're taking a brassy? Quite right, old chap, quite right. I should, too, if I couldn't depend on my irons." Waddles waved the Major aside, and pulled off his shot; but it seemed to me that he hurried the least little bit. Perhaps he was expecting another outburst of language. His ball stopped ten yards short of the putting green. "Ah!" said the Major. "You stabbed at that one, dear boy. Old Fitz stabbed his second shots too. Nervousness, I dare say; but you haven't the look of a man with nerves. Rather beefy for that, I should think. Tight match, and all. Too much food, perhaps. Never can tell, eh? Old Fitz was a gross feeder too.... Now I'm going to take an iron, and if you don't mind I wish you'd stand behind me and tell me how to shorten my swing a bit. I'm inclined to play an iron too strong.... A little farther over, if you please. I don't want you where I can see you, old chap, but I sha'n't mind your talking." The Major pulled his mid-iron out of the bag and Waddles obliged with a steady stream of advice, not one item of which was heeded: "Advance that left foot a little, and don't drop your shoulder so much! Come back a bit slower, keep your eye on the ball, start your swing higher up----" At this point the blade of the mid-iron connected with the ball and sent it sailing straight for the pin--a beautiful shot, and clean as a whistle. A white speck bounded on the green and rolled past the hole. "You see?" cried the Major. "Too strong--oh, much too strong!" "You're up there for a putt!" snorted Waddles. "What did you expect--at this distance?" "With your assistance," continued the Major, ignoring Waddles' sarcasm, "I shall shorten my swing. You've the shortest swing I've ever seen. Shorter than poor old Fitz's. I'm sorry about that belt, but I sha'n't be indecent. I have braces on--suspenders, I believe you call them." He squinted at his ball as he advanced. "Too strong. Never mind. I dare say I shall hole the putt.... You're taking a mashie next? Tricky shot--very, especially on a fast green." Waddles composed himself with a visible effort and really achieved a very fine approach shot. The ball had the perfect line to the hole, but was three feet short of the cup. "Never up, never in!" cackled the Major, and proceeded to sink a three--a nasty, twisting twelve-footer, and downhill at that. There was a patter of applause from the gallery, started by Gilman and Cyril. The Major marched to the second tee, babbling continually: