I was silent, and for the first time in my life I realized that Munchausen was not so very different from certain golfers I have met in my short day as a golfiac, and then Boswell put in: “You see, it isn't lofting or driving that wins,” he continued. “Cups aren't won on putting or approaching. It's the man who puts in the best card who becomes the champion.” “I am afraid you are right,” I said, sadly, “but I am sorry to find that Hades is as badly off as we mortals in that matter.” “Golf, sir,” retorted Boswell, sententiously, “is the same everywhere, and that which is dome in our world is directly in line with what is developed in yours.” “I'm sorry for Hades,” said I; “but to continue about golf--do the ladies play much on your links?” “Well, rather,” returned Boswell, “and it's rather amusing to watch them at it, too. Xanthippe with her Greek clothes finds it rather difficult; but for rare sport you ought to see Queen Elizabeth trying to keep her eye on the ball over her ruff! It really is one of the finest spectacles you ever saw.” “But why don't they dress properly?” “Ah,” sighed Boswell, “that is one of the things about Hades that destroys all the charm of life there. We are but shades.” “Granted,” said I, “but your garments can--” “Our garments can't,” said Boswell. “Through all eternity we shades of our former selves are doomed to wear the shadows of our former clothes.” “Then what the devil does a poor dress-maker do who goes to Hades?” I cried. “She makes over the things she made before,” said Boswell. “That's why, my dear fellow,” the biographer added, becoming confidential--“that's why some people confound Hades with--ah--the other place, don't you know.” “Still, there's golf!” I said; “and that's a panacea for all ills. YOU enjoy it, don't you?” “Me?” cried Boswell. “Me enjoy it? Not on all the lives in Christendom. It is the direst drudgery for me.” “Drudgery?” I said. “Bah! Nonsense, Boswell!” “You forget--” he began. “Forget? It must be you who forget, if you call golf drudgery.” “No,” sighed the genial spirit. “No, _I_ don't forget. I remember.” “Remember what?” I demanded. “That I am Dr. Johnson's caddy!” was the answer. And then came a heart-rending sigh, and from that time on all was silence. I repeatedly put questions to the machine, made observations to it, derided it, insulted it, but there was no response. It has so continued to this day, and I can only conclude the story of my Enchanted Type-writer by saying that I presume golf has taken the same hold upon Hades that it has upon this world, and that I need not hope to hear more from that attractive region until the game has relaxed its grip, which I know can never be.