Honest, of all the nutty performances! For there was no tellin' where them balls would roll to, and wherever they went the giddy old boys had to follow. I remember one of 'em was stretched out full length on his tummy in the front hall, tryin' to make a billiard shot from under a low hall seat, when there's another ring at the bell, and Marston, with a golf bag still slung over his shoulder, lets in a square-jawed, heavy-set old gent who glares around like he was lookin' for trouble and would be disappointed if he didn't find it. "Mr. Peter K. Groff," announces Marston. "Good night!" says I to myself. "The enemy is in our midst." But Old Hickory never turns a hair. He stands there in his shirt sleeves gazin' calm at this grizzly old minin' plute, and then I sees a kind of cut-up twinkle flash in them deep-set eyes of his as he summons his foursome to gather around. I didn't know what was coming either, until they cuts loose with it. And for havin' had no practice they rips it out strong. "S-s-s-st! Boom-boom! Outside!" comes the chorus. It gets Peter K.'s goat too. His jaw comes open and his eyes pop. Next he swallows bard and flushes red behind the ears. "Ellins," says he, "I've come fifteen hundred miles to ask what you mean by telling me----" "Oh, that you, Groff?" breaks in the boss. "Well, don't interrupt our game. Fore! You, I mean. Fore, there! Now go ahead, Rawson. Playing eleven, aren't you?" And Rawson's just poked his ball out, makin' a neat carom into the music room, when the hall clock strikes five. "By Jove, gentlemen!" exclaims Doc Hirshway. "Sorry, but I must quit. Should have been in my office an hour ago. I really must go." "Quitter!" says Mr. Ellins. "But all right. Trot along. Here, Groff, you're a golfer, aren't you?" "Why--er--yes," says Peter K., actin' sort of dazed; "but I----" "That's enough," says Old Hickory. "You take Hirshway's place. Dunham's your partner. We're playing Nassau, ten a corner. But I'll tell you,--just to make it interesting, I'll play you on the side to see whether or not we accept that proposition of yours. Is it a go?" "But see here, Ellins," conies back Peter K. "I want you to understand that you or any other man can't tell me to sew my head in a bag without----" "Oh, drop that!" says Old Hickory. "I withdraw it--mostly gout, anyway. You ought to know that. And if you can beat me at this game I'll agree to let you have your own way out there. Are you on, or are you too much of a dub to try it?" "Maybe I am a dub, Hickory Ellins," says Peter K., peelin' off his coat, "but any game that you can play--er---- Which is my ball?"