fairway. Then,
over a wide expanse of golf links, the fog had lifted clear. The
Wildcat saw the two Blue Fezant Nobles poking around near the Chinese
tomb in search of the ball which had been lost a little while before.

"Come on heah, Lily." He dragged the mascot to the Chinese tomb, near
which the Mud Turtle was halted.

"Ain't you foun' 'at little white ball yit, Mud Turtle?"

"Not me, Wilecat. Dat ball landed inside dis heah graveyard tomb. You
don't git me in dere fo' a million dollahs. What's 'at! You foun' yo'
goat!"

"Boy, out o' mah way!" The Wildcat walked toward the Chinese tomb as
fast as Lily could cover the ground. "Git out o' mah way. Me an' Lily
looks in dat tomb place. Us ain't scared o' no ol' ghosts no mo'."

One of the Blue Fezant gentleman called to the Wildcat. "Son, where in
hell have you been?"

Something in the Potent Noble's tone made the Wildcat think of Captain
Jack and the gone-away days in France. "Cap'n, suh, no place. I was
jes' 'cumulatin' mah mascot goat."

He entered the roofless Chinese tomb, and there on the stone floor lay
the golf ball. "Cap'n, suh," he yelled, "heah's yo' freckled pill." He
called less loudly to the Mud Turtle. "Otheh ball read three. Dis one
heah's got de fo' spot up. 'At's seven! Mud Turtle, you loses. Come in
heah an' look at it."

The Mud Turtle's dread of the Chinese tomb was still with him. "I
'cepts yo' word fo' it, Wilecat. Doggone you. Boy, you wins fo' times
runnin'."

"Boy, f'm now on I wins steady. Lady Luck done sent back mah mascot
goat. I cain't lose!"

He turned to his four-legged companion. "Kin us, Lily, whilst you's wid
me?"

"Blaaa!" answered Lily. "I should say not."

CHAPTER XVII

1.

"Lead me to de woods whah de luck trees grow,
Han' me de axe when it's time to chop.
Lead me kinda gentle,--git me started slow;
When I gits to goin', watch de luck trees drop."

While the Wildcat was doing his best to forget the cares that nominally
infested his official day as porter on the Blue Fezant special car,
sidetracked in San Francisco, Honey Tone Boone, the brunet uplifteh,
languished in the Memphis jail.

There were two sides to every jail. To the Wildcat, the loser in the
law's game generally occupied the inside. Honey Tone was different. The
inside of a jail for Honey Tone was often a place of sanctuary from
which the occupant might sneer serenely at the disappointed female
perils who gnashed their te