well over
cover-point's head,--or rather, in the direction where cover-point
would have been. "Ye're awfu' bad in the whuns," said the orphan
boy; and, indeed, BULGER'S next strokes were played in distressing
circumstances. The spikes of the gorse ran into his person--he could
only see a small part of the ball, and, in a few minutes, he had made
a useful clearing of about a quarter of an acre.

It is unnecessary to follow his later achievements in detail. He
returned a worn and weary man, having accomplished the round in
about a hundred and eighty, but in possession of an appetite which
astonished him and those with whom he lunched. In the afternoon, the
luck of beginners attending him, he joined a foursome of Professors,
and triumphantly brought in his partner an easy victor. In a day or
two, he was drinking beer (which he would previously have rejected
as poison), was sleeping like a top, and was laying down the law
on stimy, and other "mysteries more than Eleusinian." True, after
the first three days, his play entirely deserted BULGER, and even
Professors gave him a wide berth in making up a match. But by steady
perseverance, reading Sir WALTER SIMPSON, taking out a professional,
and practising his iron in an adjacent field, BULGER soon developed
to such an extent that few third-rate players could give him a stroke
a hole. He had been in considerable danger of "a stroke" of quite a
different character before he left London, and the delights of the
Bar. But he returned to the Capital in rude health, and may now often
be seen and heard, topping into the Pond at Wimbledon, and talking in
a fine Fifeshire-accent. It must be acknowledged that his story about
his drive at the second hole, "equal to BLACKWELL, himself, TOM MORRIS
himself told me as much," has become rather a source of diversion to
his intimates; but we have all our failings, and BULGER never dreams,
when anyone says, "What is the record drive?" that he is being
drawn for the entertainment of the sceptical and unfeeling. BULGER
will never, indeed, be a player; but, if his handicap remains at
twenty-four, he may, some day, carry off the monthly medal. With this
great aim before him, and the consequent purchase of a red-coat and
gilt-buttons, BULGER has a new purpose in existence, "something to
live for, something to do." May this brief but accurate history convey
a moral to the Pessimist, and encourage those who take a more radiant
view of the possibilities