. All you need to
do, sir, to become a member of the International Historical Committee
and receive this magnificent addition to your library, is to sign your
name here and----"

"Is--is that all?" breaks in Dowd, openin' his mouth for the first time.

"Absolutely," says Schott, unlimberin' his ready fountain pen.

"Then perhaps you would be interested to hear of a little experience of
mine," says Dowd, "on the golf course."

"Charmed," says Schott.

He didn't know what was comin'. As a book agent he had quite a flow of
language, but I doubt if he ever ran up against a real golf nut before.
Inside of half a minute Dowd was off in high gear, tellin' him about
that wonderful game he played with Old Hickory when he was under the
control of the spirit of the great Sandy McQuade. At first Schott looks
kind of dazed, like a kid who's been foolin' with a fire hydrant wrench
and suddenly finds he's turned on the high pressure and can't turn it
off. Three or four times he makes a stab at breakin' in and urgin' the
fountain pen on Dowd, but he don't have any success. Dowd is in full
swing, describin' his new theory of how all the great golfers who have
passed on come back and reincarnate themselves once more; sometimes
pickin' out a promisin' caddie, as in the case of Ouimet, or now and
again a hopeless duffer, same as he was himself. Schott can't get a word
in edgewise, and is squirmin' in his chair while Old Hickory leans back
and chuckles.

Finally, after about half an hour of this, Schott gets desperate. "Yes,
sir," says he, shoutin' above Dowd's monologue, "but what about this
magnificent set of----"

"Bah!" says Dowd. "Books! Never buy 'em."

"But--but are you sure, sir," Schott goes on, "that you understand what
an opportunity you are offered for----"

"Wouldn't have the junk about the house," says Dowd. "But later on,
young man, if you are interested in the development of my psychic golf,
I shall be glad to tell you----"

"Not if I see you first," growls Schott, gatherin' up his pile of
samples and backin out hasty.

He's in such a hurry to get away that he bumps into Mr. Robert, who's
just strollin' toward the private office, and the famous bindings, art
masterpieces, contents pages and so on are scattered all over the floor.

"Who was our young friend with all the literature?" asks Mr. Robert.

"That's Mr. Schott," says I, "your wizard of the dotted line, who was
due to break in on Mr. Ellins and get him