"Humph!" says the Doc. "I've no time to waste on silly games." And he stands by watchin' disapprovin' while Old Hickory makes an awkward stab at the peg. The nearest he comes to it is when he chucks one through the glass door of a curio cabinet, with a smash that brings the butler tiptoein' in. "Did you ring, Sir?" says Marston. "Not a blamed one!" says Mr. Ellins. "Take it away, Marston. And then unwrap that large package. There! Now what the tessellated teacups is that!" It's something I didn't know anything about myself; but the young gent at the store had been strong for puttin' it in, so I'd let it slide. It's a tin affair, painted bright green, with half a dozen little brass cups sunk in it. Some rubber balls and a kind of croquet mallet goes with it. "Indoor golf!" says Old Hickory, readin' the instruction pamphlet. "Oh, I see! A putting green. Set it there on the rug, Marston. Now, let's see if I've forgotten how to putt." We all gathers around while he tries to roll the balls into the cups. Out of six tries he lands just one. Next time he don't get any at all. "Pooh!" says the Doc edgin' up int'rested. "Wretched putting form, Ellins, wretched! Don't tap it that way: sweep it along---follow through, with your right elbow out. Here, let me show you!" But Hirshway don't do much better. He manages to get two in; but one was a rank scratch. "Ho-ho!" cackles Old Hickory. "Isn't so easy as it looks, eh, Hirshway? Now it's my turn again, and I'm betting ten I beat you." "I take you," says the Doc. And blamed if Old Hickory don't pull down the money! Well, that's what started things. Next I knew they'd laid out a regular golf course, drivin' off from the rug in front of the desk, through the double doors into the drawin' room, then across the hall into the music room, around the grand piano to the left, through the back hall, into the lib'ry once more, and onto the tin green. Marston is sent to dig out a couple sets of old golf clubs from the attic, and he is put to caddyin' for the Doc, while I carries the bag for the boss. Course they was usin' putters mostly, except for fancy loftin' strokes over bunkers that they'd built out of books and sofa pillows. And as the balls was softer than the regulation golf kind, with more bounce to 'em, all sorts of carom strokes was ruled in. "No moving the chairs," announces Old Hickory. "All pieces of furniture are natural hazards." "Agreed," says the Doc. "Playing stimies too, I suppose?" "Stimies go," says the boss.