“I almost deserved it,” said Mr. Baxter. “My third was played like a golfer, and lined on the pin. I found it in a rabbit hole underneath the left bank.” “That’s what I told you, sir. It’s that sort of hole. I shall be interested to see how the members like it next week. In this wind it’s certainly _some_ hole.” “You mentioned last night something about talk in the village,” insinuated Mr. Baxter. “What kind of talk?” “Well, sir, there’s been quite a clack, still is, for that matter; they’re a funny, old-fashioned lot, with funny ideas. Do you know, sir, they won’t go into that wood after dusk!” “Why on earth not?” “They don’t seem to think it’s healthy somehow; they call it ‘Blood Wood,’ some old superstition or other. I think some of them were a bit ashamed of feeling that way till the contractor’s men died; but that started them off again.” “It’s a pretty vague sort of yarn,” said the secretary musingly. “Do they go into detail at all?” “No, sir, it’s a village tradition of very old standing, I should say. They are scared of the wood. Old Jim the Cobbler’s father was found dead, apparently murdered, in it, and there are other tales of the old times like that.” * * * * * Sunday was a busy day for Mr. Baxter. The Dormy House filled up steadily, and by the evening the highly satisfactory total of forty-four, mostly hale and slightly too hearty, elderly gentlemen had assembled. The Autumn meeting opened in a full easterly gale, and it was a battered and weary collection of competitors who arrived back at the club house. Mr. Baxter, greeting them as they came in, found them on one subject unanimously eloquent. They one and all cherished loathing mingled with respect for the new seventeenth. The secretary examined their cards with curiosity. Only one five was recorded, the average was eight. When young Cyril Ward, the only scratch player in the club, came in, the secretary asked him how he had fared. “My ancient friend,” he replied, “I accomplished seventeen holes in seventy-two strokes; good going in this wind; my total is eighty. I give you one guess as to the other hole.” “Oh, the seventeenth, I suppose.” “You’ve said it. Baxter, there’s something funny about it. I hit two perfect shots and then took six more to hole out.” “I’m sure of it,” said the Secretary, “but I’m getting most remarkably sick of hearing about it.” After the second round of the thirty-six holes stroke competition Mr. Baxter found himself the centre of one of the fiercest indignation meetings in the history of the golf game. Everyone had something to say. Eventually he was forced to promise that, if at the end of the week they were still of the same opinion, he would have the old seventeenth restored. “But,” said he, “all this chopping and changing will cost us a lot of money.”