"One-club practise is all right for a beginner," said the Bish, "because he hasn't any bad habits to overcome, but this poor nut didn't take up the game till he was forty, and when he learned it he learned it all wrong. He can practise till he's black in the face and it won't do him any good. Don't you think we'd better page Doc Osler and have him put out of his misery?" It was then that I told the Bish about Henry's desire to break into Class A, and he whistled. "It got him quick, didn't it?" said he. "Well, there's no fool like an old fool." Half an hour later this was made quite plain to us. Henry came into the clubhouse to get a drink of water. Now I did not know him very well, and the Bish had only a nodding acquaintance with him, but he greeted us as long-lost brothers. I did not understand his cordiality at first, but the reason for it was soon apparent. Henry wanted to know whether we had a match up for the afternoon. "Sorry," lied the Bish; "we're already hooked up with a foursome." Henry said he was sorry too; and moreover he looked it. "I was thinking I might get in with you," said he. "What I need is the--er--opportunity to study better players--er--get some real competition. Somebody that will make me do my best all the time. Don't you think that will help my game?" "Doubtless," said the Bish in his deepest tone; "but at the same time you shouldn't get too far out of your class. There is a difference between being spurred on by competition and being discouraged by it." "I shot an eighty-two last Saturday," said Henry quickly. "So I hear. So I hear. And how many brassy shots did you hole out?" "Not one. It--it wasn't luck. It was good steady play." "He admits it," murmured the Bish, but Henry didn't even hear him. "Good steady play," he repeated. "What a man does once he can do again. Eighty-two. Six strokes above the par of the course. My net was twelve strokes below it--due, of course, to a ridiculously high handicap: I--I intend to have that altered. Eighty-two is Class-A golf." "Or an accident," said the Bish rather coldly. "Steady golf is never an accident," argued Henry. "I have thought it all out and come to the conclusion that what I need now is keener competition--er--better men to play with; and"--this with a trace of stubbornness in his tone--"I mean to find them." The Bish kicked my foot under the table. "That's all very well," said he, "but--how about the Old Guard?" The wretched renegade squirmed in his chair. "That," said he, "will adjust itself later." "You mean that you'll break away?" "I didn't say so, did I?" "No, but you've been talking about keener competition." Henry was not pleased with the turn the conversation had taken. He rose to go.