'putt,' as you call it, to bat a ball over that
railroad."

"You talk about driving six hundred yards to that green," I said,
annoyed at his ignorant nerve, "I will bet you a box of cigars that you
do not carry that railroad track in a month."

"Don't be foolish, Smith."

"Do you wish to bet?"

"Of course I do," he replied, teeing a ball, "and we'll get action on it
in about ten seconds. Just keep your eye on this ball!"

Disdaining to take a practice stroke, he swung viciously at it. He must
have caught it on the toe of his club, for it sliced to the right in a
low and sweeping curve.

As I followed its flight I saw a farm wagon in the road. The driver had
stopped his team, and was standing up watching Harding. I recognised
Farmer Bishop, and noted that his sallow face was distorted in a
disdainful grin, which froze on his lips when he saw the ball curving
toward him.

It is difficult for an experienced golfer to dodge a sliced drive, even
when he has a chance to run to one side or the other, but all that
Bishop could do was to duck, which he did, with the result that the
ball hit his left temple. He half fell and half jumped to the ground,
and was not so badly hurt as to prevent his being the maddest
agriculturist I have seen in many years.

He danced up and down at the edge of the road, his hand to his head,
warm, loud words flowing in a torrent from his mouth.

Harding dropped his club and we both ran toward the injured man. Harding
was the first to reach the fence, but he did not climb over.

"Did it hit you?" he asked Bishop.

The farmer took one more hop and then turned and faced the railroad
magnate. There was a lump over his eye bigger than a hen's egg, and on
it I could see the bramble marks of the ball. It was a moment before his
rage permitted utterance. He spit out a mouthful of tobacco so as not to
be handicapped.

"Did you hit me; you dod-gasted old poppinjay of a fat dude!" he
exclaimed, shaking a brawny, freckled fist at Harding. "Did you hit me;
you flabby old chromo! Do you suppose I fall out of my wagon and dance
up and down this road for exercise; you old boiled lobster?"

"I am very sorry, sir," said Harding, amusement and growing anger
struggling for mastery. "I wasn't shooting in this direction. Something
happened to my ball; what do you call it, Smith?"

[Illustration: "Did it hit you?"]

"You sliced it," I said.

"That's it; I sliced it," declared Harding, as if that were m