Did he! Would a starving newsboy go to a turkey dinner? Henry fell all over himself in his eagerness to accept that invitation. Any time would suit him--just let him get a sandwich and a glass of milk and he would be at our service. As for the making of the match, the pairing of the players, he would leave that to the Bish. He, Henry, was a twelve-handicap man; and he might shoot to it, and again he might not. Yes, anything would suit him--and he scuttled away toward the dining-room. I took the Bish into a corner and spoke harshly to him. He listened without so much as a twitch of his long solemn upper lip. "All done?" said he when I had finished. "Very well! Listen to me. I took him in with us because this is Totten Day." "What's that got to do with it?" "Everything. As a Class-B man he's eligible to play for those cups. If he tears up his card or picks up his ball he'll disqualify himself. I want to make sure that he plays every hole out, sinks all his putts and has his card turned in." "But you don't want that old stiff to win a cup, do you?" "I do," said the Bish. "Not only that, but I'm going to help him win it. That old boy hasn't been treated right. 'Man's inhumanity to man' is a frightful thing if carried to extremes. And anyway, what are you kicking about? You don't have to play with him. I'll take him as my partner, and you can have Dale." When our foursome appeared on the first tee there was quite a ripple of subdued excitement. The news that Henry Peacock had finally broken into Class-A company was sufficient to empty the lounging room. Totten, Miller and Woodson were present, but not in their golfing clothes. Sam was acting as field marshal, assisted by Jumbo and Pete. It was Woodson who came forward and patted Henry on the back. "Show 'em what you can do, old boy!" said he. "Go out and get another eighty-two!" "I'll bring him home in front," said the Bish. "Of course"--here he addressed Henry--"you won't mind my giving you a pointer or two as we go along. We've got a tough match here and we want to win it if we can." "I'll be only too happy," chirped Henry, all in a flutter. "I need pointers. Anything you can tell me will be appreciated." "That's the way to talk!" said the Bish, slapping him on the back and almost knocking him down. "The only golfer who'll never amount to anything is the one who can't be told when he makes a mistake!" Well, away we went, Dale and I driving first. Then the Bish sent one of his justly celebrated tee shots screaming up the course and made room for Henry. Whether it was the keen competition or the evident interest shown by the spectators or the fact that the Bish insisted that Henry change his stance I cannot say, but the old man nearly missed the ball entirely, topping it into the bunker. "Don't let a little thing like that worry you," said the Bish, taking Henry's arm. "I'll tell you how to play the next shot." Arriving at the bunker Henry armed himself with his niblick.