re appeared a
man carrying an envelope. Ukridge, who by this time saw, as Calverley
almost said, "under every hat a dun," and imagined that no envelope
could contain anything but a small account, softly and silently
vanished away, leaving me to interview the enemy.

"Mr. Garnet, sir?" said the foe.

I recognised him. He was Professor Derrick's gardener.

I opened the envelope. No. Father's blessings were absent. The letter
was in the third person. Professor Derrick begged to inform Mr. Garnet
that, by defeating Mr. Saul Potter, he had qualified for the final
round of the Combe Regis Golf Tournament, in which, he understood, Mr.
Garnet was to be his opponent. If it would be convenient for Mr. Garnet
to play off the match on the present afternoon, Professor Derrick would
be obliged if he would be at the Club House at half-past two. If this
hour and day were unsuitable, would he kindly arrange others. The
bearer would wait.

The bearer did wait. He waited for half-an-hour, as I found it
impossible to shift him, not caring to use violence on a man well
stricken in years, without first plying him with drink. He absorbed
more of our diminishing cask of beer than we could conveniently spare,
and then trudged off with a note, beautifully written in the third
person, in which Mr. Garnet, after numerous compliments and thanks,
begged to inform Professor Derrick that he would be at the Club House
at the hour mentioned.

"And," I added--to myself, not in the note--"I will give him such a
licking that he'll brain himself with a cleek."

For I was not pleased with the professor. I was conscious of a
malicious joy at the prospect of snatching the prize from him. I knew
he had set his heart on winning the tournament this year. To be
runner-up two years in succession stimulates the desire for first
place. It would be doubly bitter to him to be beaten by a newcomer,
after the absence of his rival, the colonel, had awakened hope in him.
And I knew I could do it. Even allowing for bad luck--and I am never a
very unlucky golfer--I could rely almost with certainty on crushing the
man.

"And I'll do it," I said to Bob, who had trotted up. I often make Bob
the recipient of my confidences. He listens appreciatively, and never
interrupts. And he never has grievances of his own. If there is one
person I dislike, it is the man who tries to air his grievances when I
wish to air mine.

"Bob," I said, running his tail through my fingers, "