an cut this out
of our game, take a stroke apiece and go on with the play. That is,
I'm willing. I don't feel very keen for the game to-day. How about you,
Tom?"

"I'm ready to quit, and I think the least we can do, considering that we
have spoiled Colonel Ashley's day, is to ask him if he won't share with
us the bottle I won from you on the water hazard."

"Done!" exclaimed Garrigan. "There were eleven million, four hundred and
ten thousand six hundred and six dollars' worth of soya beans imported
into the United States in 1917," he added, "which, of course, has
nothing to do with the number of cold bottles of champagne the steward,
at the nineteenth hole, has on the ice for us. So I suggest that we
adjourn and--"

"I will, on one condition," said Sharwell.

"What is it?" asked his companion.

"That you kindly refrain from telling us how many spools of thread were
sent to the cannibals of the Friendly Islands for the fiscal year ending
June 30, 1884."

"Done!" cried Garrigan with a laugh. "I'll never hint of it. Colonel,
will you accept our hospitality? I believe you are already put up at the
club?"

"Yes, Miss Carwell was kind enough to secure a visitor's card for me."

"Then let's forget our sorrows; drown them in the bubbling glasses with
hollow stems!" cried Garrigan, gayly.

"Here, Shag," called the colonel, as he gave his rod to his colored
servant. "I don't know when I'll be back."

"Well said!" exclaimed Sharwell.

Then they adjourned to the nineteenth hole.

If it is always good weather when good fellows get together, it was
certainly a most delightful day as the colonel and his two hosts sat on
the shady veranda of the Maraposa Golf Club. They talked of many things,
and, naturally, the conversation veered around to the death of Mr.
Carwell. Out of respect to his memory, an important match had been
called off on the day of his funeral. But now those last rites were
over, the clubhouse was the same gay place it had been. Though more than
one veteran member sat in silent reverie over his cigar as he recalled
the friend who never again would tee a ball with him.

"It certainly is queer why Harry Bartlett doesn't come out and say what
it was that he and Mr. Carwell had words about," commented Sharwell.
"There he stays, in that rotten jail. Bah! I can smell it yet, for I
called to see if I could do anything. And yet he won't talk."

"It is queer," said Garrigan. "If he'd only let his friends speak