He turned on his heel and walked off. Mr. Handliss stepped to the first tee, clapped his hands to attract attention and began a little speech. The tournament, he said, was about to begin. Play would be, owing to the length and difficulty of the course, but eighteen holes instead of the usual thirty-six. This meant that each pair of contestants would play the nine holes twice. Handicaps had been fixed as equitably as possible according to each player's previous record, and players having similar handicaps were to play against each other. A light lunch and refreshments would be served after the first round had been completed by all. Prizes would be distributed by her ladyship when the final round was finished. Her ladyship bade us all welcome and was gratified by our acceptance of her invitation. He would now proceed to read the names of those who were to play against each other, stating handicaps and the like. He read accordingly, and I learned that my opponent was to be Mr. Heathcroft, each of us having a handicap of two. Considering everything I thought my particular handicap a stiff one. Heathcroft had been in the habit of beating me in two out of three of our matches. However, I determined to play my best. Being the only outlander on the course I couldn't help feeling that the sporting reputation of Yankeeland rested, for this day at least, upon my shoulders. The players were sent off in pairs, the less skilled first. Heathcroft and I were next to the last. A London attorney by the name of Jaynes and a Wrayton divine named Wilson followed us. Their rating was one plus and, judging by the conversation of the “gallery,” they were looked upon as winners of the first and second prizes respectively. The Reverend Mr. Wilson was called, behind his back, “the sporting curate.” In gorgeous tweeds and a shepherd's plaid cap he looked the part. The first nine went to me. An usually long drive and a lucky putt on the eighth gave me the round by one. I played with care and tried my hardest to keep my mind on the game. Heathcroft was, as always, calm and careful, but between tees he was pleased to be chatty and affable. “And how is the aunt with the odd name, Knowles?” he inquired. “Does she still devour her--er--washing flannels and treacle for breakfast?” “She does when she cares to,” I replied. “She is an independent lady, as I think you know.”