"Shucks!" laughed Bill. "Don't you care. What's a little tin cup between friends?" "A tin cup!" growled Waddles. "Where do you get that stuff? Sterling silver, you poor cow!" Bill's drive was the long one, so it was up to Mary to play first. Our last hole requires fairly straight shooting, because the course is paralleled at the right by the steep slope of a hill, and at the bottom of that hill is a creek bed, lined on either side by tangled brush and heavy willows. A ball sliced so as to reach the top of the incline is almost certain to go all the way down. On the other side of the fair green there is a wide belt of thick long grass in which a ball may easily be lost. No wonder Russell advised caution. "Take an iron," said he, "and never mind trying for distance. All we need is a six." "Boy," said Mary, addressing the caddie, "my brassy, please." "Give her an iron," countermanded Russell. "Mary, you must listen to me. We've got this thing won now----" "Fore!" said Mary in the tone of voice which all women possess, but most men do not hear it until after they are married. Russell fell back, stammering a remonstrance, and Mary took her practise swings--four of them. Then she set herself as carefully as if her entire golfing career depended on that next shot. Her back swing was deliberate, the club head descended in a perfect arc, she kept her head down, and she followed through beautifully--but at the click of contact a strangled howl of anguish went up from her partner. She had hit the ball with the rounded toe of the club, instead of the flat driving surface, and the result was a flight almost at right angles with the line of the putting green--a wretched roundhouse slice ticketed for the bottom of the creek bed. By running at top speed Russell was able to catch sight of the ball as it bounded into the willows. Mary looked at Waddles and smiled--the first real smile of the afternoon. "Isn't that provoking?" said she. Judging by the language which floated up out of the ravine it must have been all of that. Russell found the ball at last, under the willows and half buried in the sand, and the recovery which he made was nothing short of miraculous. He actually managed to clear the top of the hill. Even Waddles applauded the shot. Beth took an iron and played straight for the flag. Russell picked the burs from his flannel trousers and counted the strokes on his fingers. "Hawley will put the next one on the green," said he, "and that means a possible five--a net of 91. A six will win for us; and for pity's sake, Mary, for my sake, get up there somewhere and give me a chance to lay the ball dead!" Waddles sniffed. "He's quit bossing and gone to begging," said he. "Well, if I was Mary Brooke----Holy mackerel! She's surely not going to take another shot at it with that brassy!" But that was exactly what Mary was preparing to do. Russell pleaded, he entreated, and at last he raved wildly; he might have spared his breath.