"In this case," said he, "your word will have to be sufficient. While you were hog-wrastling Cæsar's Commentaries I was down in the Indian Territory mastering the art of driving eight mules with a jerk line. I learned to swear some in Choctaw and Cherokee, but that was as far as I got. Break that Latin up into little ones. Slip it to me in plain unvarnished United States." "Well, then," said the Bish, rolling a solemn eye in my direction, "that's the same as saying that the hair of the dog cures the bite." "The hair of the dog," repeated Waddles, wrinkling his brow. "The hair--of--the--dog.... H'm-m." "Oh, it's deep stuff," said the Bish. "Take a good long breath and dive for it." "The only time I ever heard that hair-of-the-dog thing mentioned," said Waddles, "was the morning after the night before. Peacock doesn't drink." The Bish made use of a very unorthodox expletive. "Something ailed your friend Peacock," said he, "and something cured him. Think it over." Slowly the light of intelligence dawned in Waddles' eyes. He began to laugh inwardly, quivering like a mould of jelly, but the joke was too big to remain inside him. It burst forth, first in chuckles, then in subdued guffaws, and finally in whoops and yells, and as he whooped he slapped his fat knees and wallowed in his chair. "Why," he panted, "I saw it all the time--of course I did! It was just your fool way of putting it! The hair of the dog--oh, say, that's rich! Make a note of that Latin thing, Bish. I want to spring it on the Reverend Father Murphy!" "Certainly--but where are you off to in such a hurry?" "Me?" said Waddles. "I'm going to do something I've never done before. I'm going to raise a man's handicap from twelve to eighteen!" He went away, still laughing, and I looked over toward the eighteenth green. Pete Miller was preparing to putt, Sam Totten and Jumbo were standing side by side, and in the background was Henry Peacock, his hands in his pockets, his cap tilted down over his eyes and his lower lip entirely out of control. His caddie was already on the way to the shed with the bag of clubs. "From twelve handicap to eighteen," said I. "That's more or less of an insult. Think he'll stand for it?" "He'll stand for anything right now," said the Bish. "Look at him! He's picked up his ball--on the drink hole too. Give him the once over--'mighty somnambulist of a vanished dream!'" II