"Peas!" cried the market man. "Why, I have more demands for peas than I can fill. The folks who could sell me peas won't plant 'em 'cause it's too much trouble or expense to provide the brush. I'll give you eight cents a quart for peas to-day." "This is too easy," I whispered to Mike, as we went out to get the baskets. I sold my rhubarb also, and came away with a little book in which there was entered to my credit $4.16 for peas and $1.66 for rhubarb. I put the book proudly in my pocket, for it represented my first earnings from the farm, and mounting the farm wagon again told Mike to drive me to the hotel. As we pulled up before the veranda, the line of old ladies in rockers focussed their eyes upon us. "Shure," whispered Mike, "they look like they was hung out to dry!" I went up the steps and into the office, where the hotel proprietor suavely greeted me, asked after my health, and inquired how my "estate" was getting on. "You mean my farm," said I. He smiled politely, but not without a skepticism which annoyed me. I hastened from him, and left my manuscript with the stenographer, who had arrived for the summer. "I'll call for the copy to-morrow noon," said I. Then I went to the telegraph booth and sent a day letter to Stella. "Buster sending me to thank you," it read. "Meet me Hotel Belmont six to-morrow. Sold over a bushel of peas to-day. Prepare to celebrate." "Mike," said I, returning to the cart, "drop me at the golf club. Tell Mrs. Pillig not to expect me to lunch." It was ten o'clock when we arrived at the entrance to the club. I jumped out and Mike drove on. The professional took my name, and promised to hand it to the proper authorities as a candidate. Then I paid the fee for the day, borrowed some clubs from him, and we set out. I had not touched a club since the winter set in. How good the driver felt in my hand! How sweetly the ball flew from the club (as the golf ball advertisements phrase it), on the first attempt! I sprang down the course in pursuit, elated to see that I had driven even with the pro. Alas! my second was not like unto it! His second spun neatly up on the green and came to rest. Mine went off my mashie like a cannon ball, and overshot into the road. My third went ten feet. But it was glorious. Why shouldn't a farmer play golf? Why shouldn't a golfer run a farm? Why shouldn't either write stories? Heavens, what a lot of pleasant things there are to do in the world, I thought to myself, as I finally reached the green and sank my putt. Poor Stella, sweltering over a dictionary in New York! Soon she'd be here, too. She should learn to play golf, she should dig flower beds, she should wade in a brook. I flubbed my second drive. "You're taking your eye off," said the pro. "I'm taking my mind off," said I. "Give me a stroke a hole from here, for double the price of the round, or quits?" "You're on," said he.