kill a golf us is safe."

He turned to one of the Potent Nobles. "Cap'n, suh, what does you kill
dese here golfs wid?"

The Noble was quick to take up the deception. "We beat 'em to death
with those clubs. If you get a small blue golf, you beat him with an
iron club. For the savage red ones you use that club with the piece of
brass on it. The whisky golf is the worst, though; he sort of sneaks up
on you. You use those little clubs for them. They're called putters.
They're shorter so you can use 'em in close places. Short and deadly."

The quartette were presently seated in an automobile which was
retrieved from Powell Street. On the way to the Lincoln Park golf
course the party detoured through Golden Gate Park. The car drove past
the enclosure wherein leaped a dozen full grown kangaroos. One of the
Potent Nobles pointed to the awkward animals. "There's some golfs now
if you boys never seen any."

A restless kangaroo made a thirty-foot leap. "Lawd Gawd, Cap'n, does
you kill dem debbils wid clubs? I craves a cannon an' forty miles'
range, or else one o' them airplane flyin' things."

"All you have to do is to stand right close behind me and you'll be
safe."

The Wildcat's training had taught him to trust the word of a white man.
"Cap'n, yes, suh." As far as he was concerned, the conversation was
ended, but in spite of the Potent Noble's reassuring words, a feeling
of uneasiness seemed to undermine him.

At the hunting preserves in Lincoln Park it became evident that luck
was not with the two golf-killing Nobles of the Mysterious Mecca,
because about all these two gentlemen did was to continue the
monotonous business of knocking a couple of innocent looking white
balls across the landscape. Every now and then they would come upon a
grass lawn with an iron cup in the centre of it, and then each Potent
Noble would waste a lot of time urging his ball into the cup with the
short and deadly putter which was normally used for slaughtering whisky
golfs which sneaked up on you.

After the first mile or two the zest of the chase was dulled by the
Wildcat's habitual languor. He edged over towards the Mud Turtle. "Mud
Turtle, 'spec' dese gen'men gwine to give us fo' bits, mebbe, fo'
he'pin 'em hunt dese golfs what we ain't seed. Ah feels dismal. Every
time dey shoots 'at ball, s'posin' you an' me shoots ten cents?"

"How come, Wilecat? You knows us cain't monkey wid dis huntin' game."

"I don't mean monkey wid de huntin'