nservative and drapers
always Liberal.

I reached the club-house, and the first man I saw was Redford. Now Redford
is a scratch player and a vice-president of a Liberal Association. He has a
portrait of LLOYD GEORGE in his dining-room.

"Play you a round, old man, and give you ten," he said cheerfully.

I had to do something for my country. "Never," I replied sternly. "I do not
play with homicides."

"What are you talking about?" asked Redford, who is an estate agent when he
isn't golfing.

"I merely say," I replied, "that I will play with no man who deliberately
connives at the slaughter of his fellow-citizens. Every Liberal vote is a
vote for civil war."

"Man, this is a golf links, not Hyde Park."

"I regret the course I have to take, but my conscience is imperative. Away!
your clubs are blood-stained."

Redford shrugged his shoulders and went off to get the professional to go
round with him.

The next man to drop in was Pobson. He is a Grand Knight Imperial (or
something similar) of the Primrose League, and makes speeches between the
ventriloquist and the step-dancer at their meetings. He has signed the
Covenant, and reads every column Mr. GARVIN writes. In fact, I attribute it
entirely to Mr. GARVIN'S effect on the nerves that his handicap has been
increased from plus two to scratch.

"Want a round? Give you eight strokes," he began.

"No, Sir; not with a man, who tampers with the Army."

"You're either mad," said Pobson, "or else you've been reading _The Daily
News_."

I will say this for Pobson--he seemed inclined to believe in my madness as
the more credible alternative.

"Enough of this. Do you think I will be seen playing with a man who ruins
our noble Army to gratify petty political spite? Every Conservative vote
means an Army mutineer."

"Mad," said Pobson, still charitable, as he left me.

Then there entered a dear old stranger and my heart opened to him at once.

"I don't know whether you're waiting for a game, Sir," he began.

"Certainly," I said. "I'm an awfully rotten player. Ashamed to mention my
handicap."

"Can't be worse than I am, Sir. There'll be a pair of us. What shall we
play for? I like to have something on it."

"What you like," I replied. "Box of balls if you wish."

"Right."

And away we went. I beat him by eight up and seven to play and was marching
triumphantly up to the club-house when Redford intercepted me.

"What's your game?" he said. "You wouldn't play