Lowell. But the famous war
correspondent saw no charm in the leafy luxury around him, in the blue
sky, the lush grass. He heard no pipe of birds nor whisper of the
breeze. His driver wasn't working right. Then his over-worked mashie
went back on him. By the fourth green he was taking three putts, and
by the eighth he was picking up. His face was a thundercloud; his
vocabulary disclosed a richness gleaned from camp and field which was
a revelation even to our caddies; and that is no insignificant
accomplishment.

Our tenth hole in those days was close to the club-house, and the tee
was but 195 yards away--a good iron to the green. By the time we
reached this tee, the war correspondent had very nearly exhausted even
the stock of expletives he had acquired on the Dawson Trail, and had
declared seven times that he was _through_, yes, _forever_!

"Oh, come on and play just this hole--keep going to the club-house
anyway," we pleaded.

"Well," he said, "I'll take one more shot--it's my last--positively.
I'm going back to New York to-morrow."

He tossed a scarred, cut, battered ball on the turf, scorning to make
a tee. Yanking a cleek from his bag, he stepped up with the speed of
Duncan and swung. To our amazement, the ball flew like a bullet to the
mark and disappeared over the lip of the green, headed straight for
the pin. But he never saw it. He wasn't watching.

"Good shot!" we cried, with real enthusiasm.

"I wasn't looking, where'd it go?" he asked, with an attempt at scorn,
which, however, was manifestly weakening.

"Got a putt fer a two," said his caddie.

The noted man cast a withering look at this object of his previous
invective. He still suspected something. We backed the caddie up, and
he strode down the fairway with a certain reviving spring in his step.

There on the green, not six inches from the cup, reposed his battered
ball!

"Been anybody else it would have gone in!" he muttered, as he sank it
for a two.

That was his proud surrender. He said no more. He strode ahead to the
next tee, and tore out a long, straight drive. Then he lit a cigarette
and remarked that he had never seen the willows more beautiful, more
silvery in the afternoon light.

Ah, well, poor chap, he did give up golf on the first of August, if
not forever at least for the longest period of abstinence in his
career on the links. On our last afternoon over the velvet together,
before he left for the steamer that was to take him