"I can't steal and I won't starve. I'm afraid we'll have to move on farther west. Cow-punching isn't bad if one--Here they come. Not a word, old boy. We'll talk it over tonight. It's my notion we'd better move on tomorrow while we've got the wherewithal. I'm not mean enough to borrow money from Whistler and I haven't the face to ask Uncle George to help us out. Darn him, I think he's the one who put it into father's head to do this--" "Sh!" hissed the other, coming to his feet as the trim, trig figures of the Barrows girls drew near. "Sorry to keep you waiting," said Toots, the elder of the two. "Mrs. Garvin was telling a story in the locker room." Toots was an exquisite blonde, tall, slender and lithesome. "I've been slicing horribly of late, Mr. Van Winkle," said Beppy, frowning prettily. "Can you straighten me out? What am I doing that's wrong?" She was dark and brilliant, and quite as tall as her sister. One would go miles to find two more comely maids than these. "Standing too far away from the ball," said Jeff, to whom the remark was addressed. "I don't see why the club doesn't hire a professional," complained she. "He could get rich showing the members how to play the sort of golf they needn't be ashamed of." "Three fourths of them don't know the difference between a mashie and a mid-iron," said Toots. "We learned in England, you know." "By Jove!" exclaimed Rip, apropos of nothing. A great light beamed in his face. "By Jove!" repeated Jeff, divining his thought. Then, just to prove that they understood each other, they drove at least two hundred and fifty yards off the first tee, straight down the course. Jeff showed Beppy how to overcome the slice. She got a hundred and fifty yard ball. "For heaven's sake!" she exclaimed, surprised by her own prowess. "How wonderful! And how easy, when you know how." With singular coincidence of purpose, the two Van Winkles set about to teach their partners how to play better golf than they had ever played before. By the time they were playing the long eighth hole, the young men were so exercised over the discovery of a vocation that they sliced badly into the rough. Trudging side by side through the tall grass, looking for balls which the caddies had lost, they addressed each other in excited undertones. "Nothing could suit me better," said Jeff. "It's like finding money. Lessons at three dollars an hour and the privilege of selling all the golf balls to the players. How's that? Shall we tackle it?" Jeff experienced a momentary pang of doubt. "Of course we'd lose our standing as amateurs. We'd be professionals, you know." "What's the odds? Even amateurs have to live, old son." "What will the girls think of us?" dolefully. "They can't blame us for earning an honest dollar." "A Van Winkle earning an honest dollar!" scoffed Jeff, with a short laugh. "It's incredible. No one will believe it."