Thirteen holes they played, and I venture the statement that nothing like that match has ever been seen since the time when golf balls were stuffed with feathers. By playing just as badly as he knew how, getting into all the bunkers, and putting everywhere but straight at the cup, Colonel Jimmy arrived on the fourteenth tee all square with Small. They had each won two holes; the others had been halved in scandalous figures. I could tell by the way the Colonel messed the fourteenth hole that he wanted to halve that too. He certainly didn't try to win it. Small's fifth shot was in the long grass just off the edge and to the right of the putting green. Colonel Jimmy laid his sixth within three feet of the cup. "Boy, give me that shovel!" said Small, and the caddie handed him a niblick. It wasn't really a bad lie, but the ball had to be chopped out of three inches of grass. "In a case of this kind," said Small, "I guess you trust to luck, what?" He played a short chop shot and the ball went hopping toward the pin, hit the back of the cup with a plunk, and dropped for a six. Of course it was a pure accident. "Fluke!" said Colonel Jimmy, rather annoyed. "Sure!" said Small. "But it wins the hole just the same!" I knew then that the comedy was over for the day. Four holes remained to be played, and the Colonel was one down. It was never his policy to leave anything to chance. He would run the string out at top speed. David Cameron came up from the rear. "They'll play golf from here in," he whispered. "They!" said I. "One of 'em will!" "Do ye really think so?" said David. Our Number Fifteen is 278 yards long, over perfectly level ground. There are bunkers to the right and left of the putting green and a deep sand trap behind it. It is a short hole, but the sort of one which needs straight shooting and an accurate pitch. Of all the holes on the course, I think it is the Colonel's favourite. "My honour, eh?" said Small. "That being the case, I guess I'll just rap it out of the lot!" He didn't bother to measure the distance or take a practice swing. He didn't even address the ball. He walked up to it and swung his driver exactly as a man would swing a baseball bat--tremendous power but no form whatever--and the wonder is that he hit it clean. A white speck went sailing up the course, rising higher and higher in the air. When the ball stopped rolling it was 260 yards from the tee and on a direct line with the pin. "Beat that!" said Small. Colonel Jimmy didn't say anything, but he grunted whole volumes. It takes more than a long drive to rattle that old reprobate. He whipped his ball 200 yards down the course and stepped off the tee so well satisfied with himself that he forgot to groan and put his hands on his back. Small laughed. "Lumbago not so bad now, eh?" said he. "I--I may be limbering up a bit," said the Colonel. "The long drive isn't everything, you know; it's the second shot that counts!" "All right," said Small. "Let's see one!"