"What are you going to do with that blunderbuss?" asked the Bish. "Can't you play your jigger at all?" "My jigger!" exclaimed Henry. "But--it's a niblick shot, isn't it?" "That's what most people would tell you, but in this case, with a good lie and a lot of distance to make up, I'd take the jigger and pick it up clean. If you hit it right you'll get a long ball." Now Chick Evans or Ouimet might play a jigger in a bunker and get away with it once in a while, but to recommend that very tricky iron to a dub like Henry Peacock was nothing short of a misdemeanour. Acting under instructions he swung as hard as he could, but the narrow blade hit the sand four inches behind the ball and buried it completely. "Oh, tough luck!" said the Bish. "Now for a little high-class excavating. Scoop her out with the niblick." Henry scooped three times, at last popping the ball over the grassy wall. The Bish did not seem in the least discouraged. "Now your wood," said he. "But I play a cleek better." "Nonsense! Take a good hard poke at it with the brassy!" And poke it he did--a nasty slice into rough grass. "I could have kept it straight with an iron," said Henry reproachfully. "Well, of course," said the Bish, "if you don't want me to advise you----" "But I do!" Henry hastened to assure him. "Oh, I do! You can't imagine how much I appreciate your correcting my mistakes!" "Spoken like a sportsman," said the Bish, and followed at Henry's heels. By acting upon all the advice given him Henry managed to achieve that first hole in eleven strokes. He said he hoped that we would believe he could do better than that. "Sure you can!" said the Bish with enthusiasm. "One thing about you, Peacock, you're willing to learn, and when a man is willing to learn there is always hope for him. Never let one bad hole get your nanny." "Eleven!" murmured Henry. "No chance for me to win that big cup now." "Aw, what's one cup, more or less?" demanded the Bish. "You'll get something to-day worth more than any cup. You'll get keen competition--and advice." Indeed that was the truth. The competition was keen enough, and the advice poured forth in a steady stream. The Bish never left Henry alone with his ball for an instant. He was not allowed to think for himself, nor was he allowed to choose the clubs with which to execute his shots. If he wished to use a mashie the Bish would insist on the mid-iron. If he pulled the mid-iron from his bag the jigger would be placed in nomination. The climax came when the Bish gravely explained that all putter shots should be played with a slight hook, "for the sake of the extra run." That was when I nearly swallowed my chewing gum. "He's steering him all wrong," whispered Dale. "What's the idea?"