It was my observer of the dining-room. He had seated himself in the chair next to mine. "Say! young man,--you'll excuse me; but was it you I saw come in last night with the bag of golf clubs?" I acknowledged the crime. He laughed good-naturedly. "Well,--you had courage anyway. To sport a golfing outfit here in the West is like venturing out with breeches, a walking cane and a monocle. Nobody but an Englishman would dare do it. Here, they think golf and cricket should be bracketed along with hopscotch, dominoes and tiddly-winks; just as I used to fancy baseball was a glorified kids' game. I know better now." I looked at him rather darkly. "Oh!--it's all right, friend,--it takes a man to play baseball, same as it takes a man to play golf and cricket. Golfing is about the only vice I have left. Why, now I come to think of it, my wife clipped a lot of my vices off years ago, and since that my daughter has succeeded in knocking off all the others,--all but my cigars, my cocktails and my golf. I'm just plumb crazy on the game and I play it whenever I can. Maybe it's because I used to play it when I was a little chap, away back in England years and years ago." "I am glad you like the game," I put in. "It is a favourite of mine." "I play quite a bit back home in Baltimore," he continued, "that's when I'm there. My clubs arrived here by express yesterday. You see, it's like this;--I'm off to Australia at the end of the week, on a business trip,--that is, if I get things settled up here by that time. I am crossing over from there to England, where I shall be for several months. England is some place for golf, so I'm going to golf some, you bet. "I'm not boring you, young friend?" he asked suddenly. "Not a bit," I laughed. "Go on,--I am as interested as can be." "I believe there's a kind of a lay-out they call a golf course, in one of the outlying districts round here. What do you say to making the day of it? You aren't busy, are you?" he added. "No! no!--not particularly," I answered. I did not tell him that in a few days, if I did not get busy at something or other, I should starve. "Good!" he cried. "Go to your room and get your sticks. I'll find out all about the course and how to get to it." The brusk good-nature of the man hit me somehow; besides, I had not had a game for over three weeks. Think of it--three weeks! And goodness only knew when I should have the chance of another after this one. As for looking for work;--work was never to be compared with golf. Surely work could wait for one day! "All right!--I'm game," I said, jumping up and entering into the spirit of gaiety that lay so easily on my new acquaintance. "Good boy!" he cried, getting up and holding out his hand. "My name's Horsfal,--K. B. Horsfal,--lumberman, meat-packer, and the man whose name is on every trouser-suspender worth wearing. What's yours?" "George Bremner," I answered simply.