“Wal, I reckon you ladies sure won’t have to go home unhappy,” he said. “Why, as boss of this heah outfit I’d feel myself disgraced forever if you didn’t have your wish. Just wait. An’ now, ladies, the matter on hand may not be amusin’ or excitin’ to you; but to this heah cowboy outfit it’s powerful important. An’ all the help you can give us will sure be thankfully received. Take a look across the links. Do you-all see them two apologies for human bein’s prancin’ like a couple of hobbled broncs? Wal, you’re gazin’ at Monty Price an’ Link Stevens, who have of a sudden got too swell to associate with their old bunkies. They’re practisin’ for the toornament. They don’t want my boys to see how they handle them crooked clubs.” “Have you picked your team?” inquired Madeline. Stillwell mopped his red face with an immense bandana, and showed something of confusion and perplexity. “I’ve sixteen boys, an’ they all want to play,” he replied. “Pickin’ the team ain’t goin’ to be an easy job. Mebbe it won’t be healthy, either. There’s Nels and Nick. They just stated cheerful-like that if they didn’t play we won’t have any game at all. Nick never tried before, an’ Nels, all he wants is to get a crack at Monty with one of them crooked clubs.” “I suggest you let all your boys drive from the tee and choose the two who drive the farthest,” said Madeline. Stillwell’s perplexed face lighted up. “Wal, that’s a plumb good idee. The boys’ll stand for that.” Wherewith he broke up the admiring circle of cowboys round the ladies. “Grap a rope—I mean a club—all you cow-punchers, an’ march over hyar an’ take a swipe at this little white bean.” The cowboys obeyed with alacrity. There was considerable difficulty over the choice of clubs and who should try first. The latter question had to be adjusted by lot. However, after Frankie Slade made several ineffectual attempts to hit the ball from the teeing-ground, at last to send it only a few yards, the other players were not so eager to follow. Stillwell had to push Booly forward, and Booly executed a most miserable shot and retired to the laughing comments of his comrades. The efforts of several succeeding cowboys attested to the extreme difficulty of making a good drive. “Wal, Nick, it’s your turn,” said Stillwell. “Bill, I ain’t so all-fired particular about playin’,” replied Nick. “Why? You was roarin’ about it a little while ago. Afraid to show how bad you’ll play?” “Nope, jest plain consideration for my feller cow-punchers,” answered Nick, with spirit. “I’m appreciatin’ how bad they play, an’ I’m not mean enough to show them up.” “Wal, you’ve got to show me,” said Stillwell. “I know you never seen a gol-lof stick in your life. What’s more, I’ll bet you can’t hit that little ball square—not in a dozen cracks at it.” “Bill, I’m also too much of a gent to take your money. But you know I’m from Missouri. Gimme a club.”