and well-formed a forearm.
From my bag he selected a driver which I seldom use on account of its
excessive weight, and looked at it critically.

"Pretty fair sort of a stick," he observed, swinging it clumsily and
viciously, "but I'd rather have one of those hickory roots we used to
cut for shinny when I was a boy. Go ahead and soak it, Carter, so that I
may know what I've got to beat."

I mentally resolved to press even at the chance of flubbing. Carter hit
the ball too low, and it sailed into the air barely clearing the lane,
stopping not more than one hundred and fifty yards away.

"That's not so much," said Harding, grimly. "Bat her out, Smith, and
then watch your Uncle Dudley!"

I carefully teed a new ball and took a practise swing or two. I felt
morally certain that Harding could not beat Carter's drive, poor as it
was, but I was anxious to show him how a golf ball will fly when
properly struck.

I fell on that ball for one of the longest and cleanest drives I ever
made, and it did not stop rolling until it was twenty yards past the
two-hundred-yard post. I was properly proud of that shot, and despite
his loud talk I felt a sort of pity for Harding.

"Is that considered a fairly good shot?" he asked.

"It was a good one for Smith, or for that matter for anyone," replied
Carter, who was a bit sore that he had fallen down.

"It looks easy for me," calmly declared Harding stepping up to the tee.
"Can you make as high a pile of sand as you want to?"

"Yes, but it is better to tee it close to the ground," advised Carter.
"If you tee it high you are apt to go under it."

Ignoring Carter's advice he reached into the box, scooped out a
double-handful of sand and piled it in a pyramid at least four inches
high. On the apex of this he placed a new ball I had taken from my bag,
and which I felt reasonably certain would be cut in two in the
improbable event that he hit it. He stood back and surveyed his
preparations with evident satisfaction.

[Illustration: "... but there was blood in his eye"]

It was impossible for Carter and me to keep our faces straight, but
Harding paid no attention to us.

"I ought to be able to hit that, all right," he said, walking around the
sand pile and viewing it from all sides. Then he stood back and took a
practise swing.

He stood square on both feet, his legs spread as far apart as he could
extend them. He grasped the shaft of the club with both hands, holding
the left one