s just my luck that the
first gentleman I had addressed was deaf and dumb. As I crossed the
threshold, I caught an indignant mumble: "Talkative chap, that; he must
be an American."

I fled the club house and started down the course. There are three
links, but I was certain that Harding would be playing on the "regular"
one, and since it is rather narrow I had no difficulty in following it.
For the first time I was possessed of no ambition to play. Several
indignant golfers shouted "Fore!" but I pursued my way, keeping a sharp
lookout to right and left.

When about a mile from the first tee, I saw Harding. His head and
shoulders showed above the dreaded trap of "Strath's Bunker," and not
far from him was a white-bearded old gentleman with twinkling blue eyes
who was smiling at Harding's desperate efforts to loft his ball out of
the sand.

[Illustration: "This takes the cake!"]

"Thot weel not do-o, mon!" I heard him say as I neared the scene of this
tragedy. "Take yeer niblick, mon, an' coom richt doon on it!"

Out of a cascade of flying sand I saw his ball lob over the bunker, and
with various comments Mr. Harding scrambled out of this pit, brushed the
sand off his clothes, and then turned and saw me.

"Of all the damned places to get in trouble, Smith, this takes the
cake!" he exclaimed, mopping the perspiration from his face. "Do you
know," he added, looking about for his ball, "that it took me five
strokes to get out of that cursed sand pit!"

He looked in his bag for another club, played his shot, and made a
fairly good one, and then appeared to recall for the first time that he
had not recently seen me.

"Hello, Smith; when did you strike town?" he said, a welcoming smile on
his face as he offered his hand.

"About an hour ago," I said.

"Well, well! I'm glad to see you! Why didn't you wire you were coming?
We'd have come for you in our new machine. Bought a new one since we
came over here and have been travelling around in it. It's more
comfortable than these confounded English trains. They're the limit,
aren't they? Well, how are you? Seems to me you look a bit peaked?"

"I'm all right," I insisted. "How is--how is Mrs. Harding?"

"Never better in her life!"

"And how is--how is Miss Harding?"

We were on the edge of the green, and Harding had played his ball so
that we passed near the old gentleman who was Harding's opponent.

"Smith," said that gentleman, "I want you to know Old Tom Morris! O