le for receiving mental
impressions. But the editor was satisfied. Telling the youth to
transcribe his notes and send the flimsies page by page as completed
to the printer, he took up his golf sticks, passed through the outer
office, instructing his assistant to read the proof, and departed to
his recreation.

There is an excellent golf course on the Scarborough Bluffs, the
rugged, seamed, and fissured cliffs that form the northern shore of
Lake Ontario, near Toronto. Boarding a trolley-car, Mr. McMurtrie soon
reached the club-house, where he found his friend Harry Cleave
already awaiting him.

"Hullo, Mac. Day's work done?" was Mr. Cleave's salutation.

"Indeed it is. The best day's work I have done for a good while."

"Then you are pitching into somebody or something, that's certain.
What is it this time?"

"Bubbles, my boy. Those flying-men are after spinning again. Some of
the 'Frisco men will have a pain within side of 'em when they read how
I have touched 'em up. Now then, Cleave, we've got the course to
ourselves. I'm sure I can give you half a stroke and a beating. 'Tis
your honour."

The consciousness of having touched up the 'Frisco men seemed to have
a salutary influence on Mr. McMurtrie's play. He was in the top of
form, won the first two holes, and was in the act of lifting his club
to drive off from the tee of number three, when a faint buzzing sound
from the direction of the lake caused him to suspend the stroke and
glance over the placid blue water. Far away in the sky he saw a dark
speck about the size of a swallow, which, however, grew with
extraordinary rapidity, and in a few moments declared itself to be an
aeroplane containing two men.

"Be jabers!" quoth Mr. McMurtrie, resting his club on the ground and
watching the flying machine with eyes in which might have been
discerned a shade of misgiving.

It was, perhaps, thirty seconds from the time when he first caught
sight of it that the aeroplane came perpendicularly above his head,
the whirring ceased, and the machine descended with graceful swoop
upon the well-cropt turf within fifty yards of the spot where the two
golfers stood. As soon as it alighted, Mr. McMurtrie handed his sticks
to the caddie, and, as one released from a spell, hurried to meet the
man who had just stepped out of the car.

"That's Toronto over yonder?" said Smith without ceremony.

"Indeed it is," replied McMurtrie, taking stock of the dirty
dishevelled figure. "Y