"I couldn't have been half so tickled if I'd won it myself!" said he. "You see, you never won a cup before. I won one once--runner-up in the fifth flight over at San Gabriel. Nice cup, silver and all that, but you've got to have a magnifying glass to _see_ it. Now this Hemmingway Cup, Henry, is a regular old he cup. You can't put it where your visitors won't find it. You can be proud of it, old son, and we're proud of you." "Same here," said Peter Miller, and his face twisted into something remotely resembling a smile. "Did my heart good to see the old boy laying those tee shots out in the middle every time. We're all proud of you, Henry." "Proud!" exclaimed Sam Totten. "I'm so proud I'm all out of shape!" Peacock didn't have much to say. He sat there smiling his tight little smile and looking at the silver cup. I believe that even then the idea of desertion had entered into his little two-by-four soul. There was a thoughtful look in his eyes, and he didn't respond to Totten's hilarity with any great degree of enthusiasm. "What was it the admiral said at Santiago?" asked Sam. "'There's glory enough for us all!' Wasn't that it?" "Mph!" grunted Waddles. "Since you're getting into famous remarks of history, what was it the governor of North Carolina----" "I think I'll take my bath now," interrupted Henry Peacock, rising. "You will not!" cried Sam Totten. "I'm going to buy. Jumbo here is going to buy. Pete is going to buy. Where do you get that bath stuff? We don't win a cup every day, Henry. Sit down!" An hour later Waddles emerged from the shower room, looking very much like an overgrown cupid in his abbreviated underwear. Henry Peacock had been waiting for him. The Hemmingway Cup, in its green felt bag, dangled from his wrist. My locker is directly across the alley from Waddles', and I overheard the entire conversation. "I--I just wanted to say," began Henry, "that any cut you might want to make in my handicap will be all right with me." Waddles growled. He has never yet found it necessary to consult a victim before operating on his handicap. There was a silence and then Henry tried again. "I really think my handicap ought to be cut," said he. "Oh, it'll be _cut_ all right!" said Waddles cheerfully. "Don't you worry about that. Any old stiff who brings in a net of sixty-four has a cut coming to him. Leave it to me!" "Well," said Henry, "I just wanted you to know how I felt about it. I--I want to be quite frank with you. Of course, I probably won't shoot an eighty-two every time out"--here Waddles gasped and plumped down on the bench outside his locker--"but when a man brings in a net score that is twelve strokes under the par of the course I think some notice should be taken of it." "Oh, you do, do you? Listen, Henry! Since we're going to be frank with each other, what do you think your new handicap ought to be?" Waddles was stringing him of course, but Henry didn't realise it. "I think ten would be about right," said he calmly.