"You've said it," says the starter. "He could do about what he likes around this buildin', Mr. Dowd could." "Eh?" says I. "The Hon. Matt?" "Good guess!" says the starter. "You must know him." "Rather," says I. "Him and my boss are old chums. Golf cronies, too. Thanks. I guess that'll be all." "But how about that sport census?" asks the starter. "It's finished," says I, makin' a quick exit. And by the time I'm back in the private office once more I've untangled all the essential points. Why, it was only two or three days ago that the Hon. Matt broke in on Old Hickory and gave him an earful about his latest discovery in the golf line. I'd heard part of it, too, while I was stickin' around waitin' to edge in with some papers for Mr. Ellins to sign. Now what was the big argument? Say, I'll be driven to take up this Hoot-Mon pastime myself some of these days. Got to if I want to keep in the swim. It was about some particular club Dowd claimed he had just learned how to play. A mashie-niblick, that was it. Said it was revealed to him in a dream--something about gripping with the left hand so the knuckles showed on top, and taking the turf after he'd hit the ball. That gave him a wonderful loft and a back-spin. And I remember how Old Hickory, who was more or less busy at the time, had tried to shunt him off. "Go on, you old fossil," he told him. "You never could play a mashie-niblick, and I'll bet twenty-five you can't now. You always top 'em. Couldn't loft over a bow-legged turtle, much less a six foot bunker. Yes, it's a bet. Twenty-five even. But you'll have to prove it, Matt." And Mr. Dowd, chucklin' easy to himself, had allowed how he would. "To your complete satisfaction, Ellins," says he, "or no money passes. And within the week." As I takes another look down at the little grass plot on the roof I has to admit that the Hon. Matt knew what he was talkin' about. He sure had turned the trick. Kind of clever of him, too, havin' the window marked and all that. And puttin' the "Ha, ha!" message on the ball. I was still over by the window, sort of smilin' to myself, when Old Hickory walks in, havin' concluded to absorb only a sandwich and a glass of milk at the arcade cafeteria instead of goin' to his club. "Well, young man," says he. "Have you any more wise deductions to submit?" "I've got all the dope, if that's what you mean, sir," says I. "Eh?" says he. "Not who and what and why?" I nods easy. "I don't believe it, son," says he. "It's uncanny. To begin with, who was the man?" "Don't you remember havin' a debate not long ago with someone who claimed he could pull some wonderful stunt with a mashie-niblick?" says I. "Why," says Old Hickory, "with no one but Dowd." "You bet him he couldn't, didn't you?" I asks. "Certainly," says he. "Well, he can," says I. "And he has." "Wha-a-at!" gasps Old Hickory. "Uh-huh!" says I. "It was him that shot in the ball with the Ha, ha! message on it." "But--but from where?" he demands.