Carefully posing the maiden aspirant for putting excellence at the end of the yard-wide velvety strip leading to the green and “hole,” Dam gave his best advice, bade her smite with restraint, and then proceeded to the “hole” to retrieve the ball for his own turn. Other couples did “preliminary canters” somewhat similarly on the remaining spokes of the great wheel of the putting “clock”. The canny and practised Amelia, who had designs upon the handsome silver prize as well as upon the handsome Damocles, smote straight and true with admirable judgment, and the ball sped steadily down the track direct for the “hole,” a somewhat large and deep one. “By Jove! Magnificent!” cried Dam, with quick and generous appreciation of the really splendid putt. “You’ll hole out in one this time, anyhow.” As the slowing ball approached the “hole” he inserted his hand therein, laughing gaily, to anticipate the ball which with its last grain of momentum would surely reach it and topple in. Then the thing happened! As he put his hand to the grass-encircled goal of the maiden’s hopes and ball, its gloomy depths appeared to move, swirl round, rise up, as a small green snake uncoiled in haste and darted beneath Dam’s approaching upturned hand, and swiftly undulated across the lawn. With a shriek that momentarily paralysed the gay throng, turned all eyes in his direction, and brought the more cool and helpful running to the spot, Dam fell writhing, struggling, and screaming to the ground. “The SNAKE! The SNAKE!” he howled, while tears gushed from his eyes and he strove to dig his way into the ground for safety. “There it goes!” squealed the fair Amelia pointing tragically. Ladies duly squeaked, bunched their skirts tightly, jumped on chairs or sought protection by the side of stalwart admirers. Men cried “Where?” and gathered for battle. One sporting character emitted an appalling “View Halloo” and there were a few “Yoicks” and “Gone Aways” to support his little solecism. Lucille, rushing to Dam, encountered the fleeing reptile and with a neat stroke of her putter ended its career. “It’s all right, old chap,” sneered Haddon Berners, as the mad, convulsed, and foaming Dam screamed: “_It’s under my foot. It’s moving, moving, moving out_,” and doubled up into a knot. “Oh no, it isn’t,” he continued. “Lucille has killed it. Nothing to be terrified about…. Oh, chuck it, man! Get up and blow your nose….” He was sent sprawling on his back as Lucille dropped by Dam’s side and strove to raise his face from the grass. “Come off it, Dam! You’re very funny, we know,” adjured the sporting character, rather ashamed and discomfortable at seeing a brother man behaving so. There are limits to acting the goat—especially with wimmin about. Why couldn’t Dam drop it?…