"'S all yours, I guess," said he. "Nobody out now but the Old Guard. Not one of them could make an 88 with a lead pencil, and that's what they've got to do to beat you. Might as well begin to buy." I began to buy, and while I was signing the first batch of tags the Old Guard came marching in from the eighteenth green. Sam Totten was in the lead, walking backward and twirling his putter as a drum major twirls a baton. Frank Woodson and Peter Miller were acting as an escort of honour for Henry Peacock, and I began to have misgivings. I also ceased signing tags. The door of the lounging room crashed open and Sam Totten entered, dragging Henry Peacock behind him. Miller and Woodson brought up the rear. "Hey, Waddles!" shouted Sam. "What do you think of this old stiff? He shot an eighty-two; he did, on the level!" "An eighty-two?" said I. "Then his net was----" "Sixty-four," murmured Mr. Peacock with an apologetic smile. "Yes--ah--sixty-four." "The suffering Moses!" gulped Waddles. "How did he do it?" "He played golf," said Peter Miller. "Kept his tee shots straight, and holed some long putts." "Best round he ever shot in his life!" Woodson chimed in. "Won three balls from me, but it's a pleasure to pay 'em, Henry, on account of your winning the cup! Who'd have thought it?" "And we're proud of him!" cried Sam Totten. "I'm proud of him! He's my partner! An eighty-two--think of an old stiff like him shooting an eighty-two! One foot in the grave, and he wins a cup sixteen hands high and big as a horse! Cheers, gentlemen, cheers for the Old Guard! It dies, but it never surrenders!" "Here," said I, thrusting the rest of the tags into Henry's limp and unresisting hand. "You sign these." "But," said he, "I--I didn't order anything, and I won the drink hole." "You won the cup too, didn't you?" demanded Waddles. "Winner always buys--buys for everybody. Boy, bring the rest of those tags back here and let Mr. Peacock sign them too. Winner always buys, Henry. That's a club rule." Mr. Peacock sat down at the table, put on his glasses and audited those tags to the last nickel. After he had signed them all he picked up the Hemmingway Cup and examined it from top to bottom. "Can you beat that?" whispered Waddles in my ear. "The old piker is trying to figure, with silver as low as it is, whether he's ahead or behind on the deal!" "Well, boys," said Sam Totten, standing on his chair and waving his arms, "here's to the Old Guard! We won a cup at last! Old Henry won it; but it's all in the family, ain't it, Henry? Betcher life it is! The Old Guard--drink her up, and drink her down!" Frank Woodson dropped his big ham of a hand on Henry Peacock's shoulder.