One day he announced that he was going back to Canada. "We must have a last game," he said, "and this one must be decisive." "For the championship of the Empire," I agreed. "Let's buy a little cup and play for it. I've never won anything at golf yet, and I should love to see a little cup on the dinner-table every night." "You can't come to dinner in Canada _every_ night," he pointed out. "It would be so expensive for you." Well, the cup was bought, engraved "The Empire Challenge Cup," and played for last Monday. "This," said Smith, "is a serious game, and we must play all out. No giving away anything, no waiving the rules. The Empire is at stake. The effeteness of the Mother Country is about to be put to the proof. Proceed." It wasn't the most pleasant of our games. The spirit of the cup hung over it and depressed us. At the third hole I had an eighteen-inch putt for a half. "That's all right," said Smith forgetfully; and then added, "Perhaps you'd better put it in, though." Of course I missed. On the fifth green he was about to brush away a leaf. "That's illegal," I said sharply, "you must pick it up; you mayn't brush it away," and after a fierce argument on the point he putted hastily--and badly. At the eighteenth tee we were all square and hardly on speaking terms. The fate of the Mother Country depended upon the result of this hole. I drove a long one, the longest of the day, slightly hooked. "Good shot," said Smith with an effort. He pressed and foozled badly. I tried not to look pleased. We found his ball in a thick clump of heather. With a grim look on his face, he took out his niblick.... I stayed by him and helped him count up to eight. "Where's your ball?" he growled. "A long way on," I said reproachfully. "I wish you'd hurry up. The poor thing will be getting cold." He got to work again. We had another count together up to fifteen. Sometimes there would be a gleam of white at the top of the heather for a moment and then it would fade away. "How many?" I asked some minutes later. "About thirty. But I don't care, I'm going to get the little beast into the hole if it takes me all night." He went on hacking. I had lost interest in the performance, for the cup was mine, but I did admire his Colonial grit. "Got it," he cried suddenly, and the ball sailed out on to the pretty. Another shot put him level with me. "Thirty-two?" I asked. "About," he said coldly. I began to look for my ball. It had got tired of waiting and had hidden itself. Smith joined gloomily in the search. "This is absurd," I said, after three or four minutes. "By jove!" said Smith, suddenly brightening up. "If your ball's lost I win after all." "Nonsense; you've given the hole up," I protested. "You don't know how many you've played. According to the rules, if I ask you how many, and you give wrong information--" "It's thirty-five," he said promptly. "I don't believe you counted."