compels even those who are near-sighted and blase to sit up and
give attention.

Harding's feet are of generous proportions, and his tan shoes with their
thick, broad soles armed with big spikes to keep him from slipping
looked most impressive.

He was the personification of newness. The leather of his bag was
flawless, and the grips of his clubs were new and glossy. The steel and
nickel of his iron clubs shone without one flaw to dim their lustre. In
the pocket of his bag were a dozen new balls, so white and gleaming that
it seemed a shame to use them. I could see that the art collection of
balls being made by Miss Dangerfield would take on a boom from the
advent of Harding.

"Tell you what I want to do, Smith," said Harding, as we stood on the
veranda of the club house, early this forenoon. "I want to find some
place where I can soak a ball as far as I can and not have it stopped by
a hill or a brook, or something like that. I haven't been over this
place yet, but isn't there some smooth, level place where a ball would
naturally roll a quarter of a mile or so if you hit it good and hard?"

"The eighteenth hole is six hundred and thirty-two yards--one of the
longest in the country," I said, "and it is smooth as a barn floor after
you carry the railroad tracks. That is a long carry, and most players go
short and take the tracks on their second shot."

"Six hundred odd yards," he mused. "Let's see; over a third of a mile,
eh?"

I said that it was, and a par hole in six.

"Anybody ever drive it yet?" he asked.

"Drive it?" I repeated, laughing. "Well, I should say not! I have
reached the green in three only twice in all the times I have played it,
and am well satisfied to be there in four."

"That proves nothing to me," he said, looking me over, "but you're a
pretty husky-appearing chap at that. You're nearly six feet, aren't you,
Smith?"

"A quarter of an inch more than six feet in my stockings," I said.

"And how much do you weigh?"

"One hundred and eighty-five."

"You'd ought to be able to drive a ball farther than you do," he said,
with the air of one who had mastered the game in all its details. There
is not a man in the club who can consistently out-drive me, and I'll
wager that Kirkaldy himself cannot average ten yards more than I do, but
what was the use of arguing with Harding?

It was easy to see that this magnate actually believed that his first
stroke at a golf ball was no accident, and was