ordially invited Harding and his daughter
to come and call on him, and Harding did not hesitate in accepting the
invitation.

Now that I think of it, none of us gave a thought to that ball, and I
suppose it is out in the road yet. Harding said that was all the golf he
wished that day, and so we went back to the club house.

"Talk about driving a ball six hundred yards, Smith," he said, as we
came to the eighteenth tee. "I knocked that ball so far that I hit a boy
in Maine, and that's hundreds of miles from here."

ENTRY NO. VIII

DOWNFALL OF MR. HARDING

I do not know whether to be annoyed or amused over the result of my
second golf game with Miss Harding. It was not in the least like my
anticipations.

Our first game was so romantic. It was as if the kindly skies had raised
a dome over earth's most favoured spot and reserved it for our use. It
was different to-day.

I presume it is necessary that beautiful maidens shall have fathers. I
raise no doubt that Mr. Harding is a wonderful financier and railroad
genius, and it is likely he is entitled to a vacation and to that
relaxation which comes from taking exercise, but this does not justify
him in--well, in "butting in" on our game. I don't use slang as a rule,
but no other term so accurately describes the conduct of that gentleman
this afternoon.

As for Carter--I have no words to express what I think of Carter.

If I had a daughter nineteen years old it would occur to me that she
might prefer to play golf with a young gentleman somewhere near her own
age rather than with me, especially if that young gentleman were a good
golfer, and possessed of wealth, prospects, and honourable ambitions.
But Mr. Harding treats her as if she were a school miss in short
dresses. He persists in calling her "Kid," and only rarely does he
address her by the beautiful name of Grace.

When Miss Harding started from the club house her father was on the lawn
not many yards away engaged in the interesting but expensive experiment
of trying to drive balls across the lake. He was buying new balls by the
box--they cost $5.50 a box--with the joyous abandon of a pampered boy
purchasing fire-crackers on the Fourth of July.

All he asks of a ball is "one crack at it," and the caddies were reaping
a harvest. He had not made one decent drive, and was surprised and
angry.

As luck would have it he turned and saw us as we were starting for the
first tee. He had laid aside that fla