and could think of nothing, and it was perhaps just as
well. I composed some ripping good sentences before I went to sleep that
night, but it was too late to use them, and I shall not record them
here.

And then we met Wallace and Miss Lawrence, her arm drawn through his,
her face lifted toward his, and her tongue going when she was not
laughing. They were "walking out" a dance, and evidently enjoying it.

Mr. Harding had the time of his life. He danced with stout farm wives,
slender village maidens, and executed a clog dance which made the barn
shudder on its foundations. He led the singing, told stories to groups
of farmers who shouted with laughter, and refused to go home until Mrs.
Harding took him by the arm and fairly dragged him away.

I walked home with Miss Harding.

[Illustration: "Mr. Harding ... executed a clog dance"]

ENTRY NO. XII

THE ST. ANDREWS SWING

A week has passed since I made the last entry in this diary, and a
number of peculiar things have happened.

My brokers have brought an additional 10,000 shares of N.O. & G., which
brings my speculative holdings to a total of 25,000 shares. They
acquired the last block at an average price of 65, and the market closed
to-night at 63. If I were to settle at this figure I would be loser to
the amount of $150,000, not including the $23,000 lost on the first two
thousand shares purchased, on which I have taken my losses. Counting
commissions and interest I am about $175,000 to the bad, but am not in
the least worried.

My brokers are now placing their orders through houses in other cities,
and I am certain the extent of my operations is a secret beyond the
slightest question.

The qualifying round for the "Harding Trophy" brought out the largest
field of players in the history of our club competitions. Of course most
of those who started declared that they had no expectation of winning,
or even of qualifying in the first sixteen. For instance, there was
Peabody, whose best medal score is 112.

"Are you going to play for that bronze gent?" demanded Chilvers, as
Peabody came to the first tee.

"Thought I might just as well enter," said Peabody. "Of course I know I
haven't a chance in the world to win."

"You never can tell," said Chilvers, his face solemn as an owl. Chilvers
is a merciless "kidder."

"That's right," admitted Peabody.

"If you play the way I saw you doing the other day, there's not a man in
the club has anything on you