?"

Graham flushed. He knew well enough one thing she had heard. Her father
and mother had been at dinner the other night, and he had had too much
to drink.

"Sorry."

He stopped the pump and put away the tools, all in silence. Good
heavens, was all the world divided into two sorts of people: the
knockers--and under that heading he placed his father, Delight, and all
those who occasionally disapproved of him--and the decent sort who liked
a fellow and understood him?

But his training had been too good to permit him to show his angry
scorn. He made an effort and summoned a smile.

"All ready," he said. "And since you won't let me teach you, perhaps I'd
better take you home."

"You were going to the club."

"Oh, that's all right. Father's probably found some one."

But she insisted that he drive them both to the club, and turn the car
round there. Then, with a grinding of gear levers that made him groan,
she was off toward home, leaving Graham staring after her.

"Well, can you beat it?" he inquired of the empty air. "Can you beat
it?"

And wounded in all the pride of new manhood, he joined Marion and her
rather riotous crowd around the fire inside the clubhouse. Clayton had
given him up and was going around alone, followed by a small caddie.
The links were empty, and the caddie lonely. He ventured small bits of
conversation now and then, looking up with admiration at Clayton's tall
figure. And, after a little, Clayton took the bag from him and used him
only for retrieving balls. The boy played round, whistling.

"Kinda quiet to-day, ain't it?" he offered, trudging a foot or two
behind.

"It is, rather, young man."

"Mostly on Saturdays I caddie for Mr. Valentine. But he's gone to the
war."

"Oh, he has, has he?" Clayton built a small tee, and placed his ball on
it. "Well, maybe we'll all be going some day."

He drove off and started after the ball. It was not until he was on the
green that he was conscious of the boy beside him again.

"How old d'you have to be to get into the army, Mr. Spencer?" inquired
the caddie, anxiously.

Clayton looked at him quizzically.

"Want to try for it, do you? Well, I'm afraid you'll have to wait a
bit."

"I'm older than I look, Mr. Spencer."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Afraid you'll have to wait a while," said Clayton and achieved a
well-nigh perfect long putt.

"I'd just like to get a whack at them Germans," offered the boy, and
getting no respon