e any
more?" he asked meaningly.

"No, thank you," was the laughing response. "I've got all I can carry.
Not that I'm going to let you beat me, but I'm always a stroke or two
off in my play when the sun's too bright, as it is now. However, I'm not
crawling."

"You'd better not!" declared his rival. "As for me, the brighter the sun
the better I like it. Well, are we all ready?"

The officials held a last consultation and announced that play might
start. Mr. Carwell was to lead.

The first hole was not the longest in the course, but to place one's ball
on fair ground meant driving very surely, and for a longer distance than
most players liked to think about. Also a short distance from the tee
was a deep ravine, and unless one cleared that it was a handicap hard to
overcome.

Mr. Carwell made his little tee of sand with care, and placed the ball
on the apex. Then he took his place and glanced back for a moment to
where Viola stood between Captain Poland and Harry Bartlett. Something
like a little frown gathered on the face of Horace Carwell as he noted
the presence of Bartlett, but it passed almost at once.

"Well, here goes, ladies and gentlemen!" exclaimed Mr. Carwell in rather
loud tones and with a free and easy manner he did not often assume.
"Here's where I bring home the bacon and make my friend, the major, eat
humble pie."

Viola flushed. It was not like her father to thus boast. On the contrary
he was usually what the Scotch call a "canny" player. He never predicted
that he was going to win, except, perhaps, to his close friends. But he
was now boasting like the veriest schoolboy.

"Here I go!" he exclaimed again, and then he swung at the ball with his
well-known skill.

It was a marvelous drive, and the murmurs of approbation that greeted it
seemed to please Mr. Carwell.

"Let's see anybody beat that!" he cried as he stepped off the tee to
give place to Major Wardell.

Mr. Carwell's white ball had sailed well up on the putting green of the
first hole, a shot seldom made at Maraposa.

"A few more strokes like that and he'll win the match," murmured
Bartlett.

"And when he does, don't forget what I told you," whispered Viola to
him.

He found her hand, hidden at her side in the folds of her dress, and
pressed it. She smiled up at him, and then they watched the major swing
at his ball.

"It's going to be a corking match," murmured more than one member of the
gallery, as they followed the players