“Well, well,” he exclaimed, “what a remarkable young man you must be! You see,” he added, “I’ve taken it up in a mild way myself. I’m afraid I shall never be able to get really interested, but it’s an excuse for keeping out of doors. I wish I had begun it at your age. Every afternoon on the links is so much health stored up for after life. Remember that!” “They say it _is_ wholesome,” said Cutting. “I gathered that you played. I saw a mashie on your desk. If you don’t think me rude, would you tell me where you got that thing? Or is it some sort of advertisement?” Mr. Heminway looked surprised. “Advertisement?” he repeated. “Oh, no. That’s an idea of my own. You see, I need a heavy club to get distance. I had this made. It weighs fourteen ounces,” he went on. “What do you think of it?” He handed the thing over, and watched Cutting’s face. “Do you want my honest opinion?” said Cutting. The lawyer nodded. “Then give it away, Mr. Heminway,” said the young man, respectfully, “or melt it into rails. You know you can’t play _golf_ with that.” The lawyer looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Why, distance isn’t a question of weight!” said Cutting. “It’s a fact that you get the best distance with the lightest clubs. Most professionals use ladies’ cleeks.” The great lawyer looked thoughtful. “Is that so?” he asked. He was trying to account for this doctrine out of his experience. “It seems absurd,” he added. “It’s so, though,” said Cutting. He heard the banker in the next room cough ominously. He took up his hat. “Sit down, sit down!” exclaimed the lawyer. “I want to find out about this. I’ve been doing pretty well, except at the quarry-hole. That beats me. It’s only one hundred and twenty-five yards, so that I’m ashamed to use a driver; and with an iron I go in--I go in too often.” “Everybody goes in at times,” Cutting remarked encouragingly; “it’s a sort of nerve hazard, you know.” “I go in more than ‘_at times_,’” said the lawyer. “Last Saturday I lost sixteen balls there--and my self-respect. That’s too much, isn’t it?” Cutting looked severely away at the portrait of Chief Justice Marshall. “Yes,” he said; “that is rather often.” The idea of Mr. Heminway profanely filling up the hill quarry with golf-balls appealed to him. “Still,” he went on, “you must pardon me, but I don’t think it could have been because your clubs were too light.” “Well,” demanded the lawyer, “what do I do that’s wrong?” Cutting looked him over critically. “Of course I’ve never seen you play,” he said. “I should judge, though, that you hit too hard, for one thing.” “I suppose I do,” said the lawyer. “I get irritated. It appears so simple.” “You see,” Cutting continued, “there are three things that you ought always to keep in mind--” There was a rap on the door, and a clerk put his head in. “Mr. Pendleton,” he began, mentioning the banker’s name.