He slid down on the other side of it and rested there with his wet shoes in the sand. It was all very nice, he told himself, to know that you were on a golf course, but it didn’t help very much. A chap could be just as lost, just as wet and miserable and hungry on a golf course as anywhere else. Somewhere, of a certainty, there was a clubhouse, but if he knew where it stood and could find it it was more than probable that it would be closed up on a day like this. And, anyhow, they wouldn’t be serving breakfast there! The idea of sitting just where he was until some one came along suggested itself but didn’t appeal to him. Once he thought he heard a noise of some sort, but he wasn’t sure. However, he got up and headed in the direction from which it had seemed to come. After a minute or two he came to a green with a soggy red tin disk, numbered fourteen, sticking out of a hole. “Glad it wasn’t thirteen,” said Tom to himself as he went on. “That might have been unlucky.” Presently it seemed that the fog had lessened and that his range of vision had enlarged; he was quite sure that he could discern objects at a greater distance than before. But as there wasn’t at that moment anything particularly interesting to discern the discovery didn’t bring much encouragement. He was going up a steep hill now and when he had gained the summit and seated himself for a moment on the edge of the sand box, which stood there at the edge of a tee, he saw that the fog was thinner because he was higher up. Behind him the ground sloped away again, but not so abruptly as in front. As he sat there, struggling for breath after his climb, it seemed that he was the only person in existence. On all sides of him the hill lost itself in the enveloping mists. He was alone in an empty gray space in which there was neither food nor fire. He got quite discouraged about it and a little watery at the eyes until he shook himself together and told himself that he was a baby. “There are houses and people all around you,” he said disgustedly, “only you can’t see them. All you’ve got to do is to brace up and keep on walking until you find them.” But that was easier said than done, for he had been walking a long time, and for much of that time over hard ground, and his legs were tired out. But he went on presently, slowly and discouragedly, down a long slope and up another. He had begun to talk aloud to himself for very loneliness, and some of the things he said would have sounded quite ridiculous had there been anyone else to hear them. At the summit of the slope he paused again to rest, and as he did so he suddenly lifted his head intently, straining his eyes before him into the fog. Of course it was all perfect tommyrot, but, just the same—well, it did sound like music! In fact, it _was_ music, very faint and sometimes dying away altogether, but still music!